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Scotch 

Thistles 


Poems 

By A. MORE 


/ 



CHICAGO 
Kable Bros. Company 

Printed for the Author 
1924 




CopyRiQHT, 1924 / 
By ANNE MORE/ 


Acknowledgements to publishers of local newspapers, Chicago 
Elite, Illinois C. E. News, Progressive Teacher, Ladies’ Home 
Journal, Banner of Gold, High School Log Book. 

MAY "3'241 

©C1A792:.47 {y 





To the Memory of 
My Father^ 

iReb. STames; J^tntp JMote, 2B. J9., 


INDEX 


I. Scotch Thistles. 

Coax I wm. 

A Ballade True of Heraldrie. 

The Battle.. 

The Accurate Report. 

At H-Hall. 

The Swish.. 

Come Away. 

The Merry More Clan... 

II. Of Local Color. 

Fairmount.. 

The Crows on Sammis Hill._. 

Building... 

Invitation to Dine. 

The Old Town Hall. 

Polo’s Civic Pride.. 

Lines on the Old Cannon... 

The Affair on the S. S. Georgia... 

He’s Bad... 

The Pines. 

When Baby Ran Away. 

Spring Again.. 

May Time.. 

Rain Drops.. 

November.. 

All Flesh is as Grass.-. 

The Little Brown Hill._. 

March Frost Prints. 

Sunday Morning. 

Another Heritage... 

Prosperity.. 

Art Club Review. 

III. Dialect Verse. 

Odahs. 

Black and White. 

The Jedgment of the Goats. 

Two Pessimistic Views. 

A Bugle Call—. 

Two Views of The Tax.. 

The Furnace... 

IV. Votes for Women. 

Votes for Women I. 

Votes for Women II... 

Votes for Women III.„. 

V. Earlier Verse. 

A Surprised Fairy. 

Wintergreen. 

Oh, Himger, Hunger.-. 

A Spring “Pome”...... 

Original Treatment of an Ancient Theme- 

Hearts o’ GolcL„.. 

Visions of the Night.. 

Song of the School-ma’am.. 

Old Cynthy.... 

Prophecy, Owatonnas of Warren Ave... 

Jimior C. E. Song... 

Illinois Rally Song.—. 

The Work of the Christian Citisen.. 

New Year’s Eve..._. 


13 

14 

15 

16 

17 

18 

18 

19 

23 

24 

26 

27 

28 

29 

30 

31 

32 

34 

35 

36 

37 

38 

38 

39 

40 

41 

41 

42 

43 

44 

53 

55 

56 

56 

57 

58 

60 

65 

67 

68 

71 

72 

73 

74 

75 

76 

77 

78 

80 

82 

85 

86 

86 

87 



























































A Hymn.... 

Nearer to Thee. 

Anniversary Hymn. 

Children’s Day... 

VI. Three Little Plays. 

A True Story Play for Children. 

The Artist and the Soldier__ 

The Good Stepmother.. 

VII. Fragments. 

Fragments. 

His Likeness.. 

Battle Field of Fairmount... 

Ante-War Styles. 

Some Poetry.. 

Scotch Mary.. 

Shadows. 

Some Folks.™. 

My Mansion.. 

The Crucifix.. 

Juxtaposition.-. 

Grewsome but Devoted.. 

Suspicion.. 

War Colors.-. 

VIII. The Five Stones. 

The Five Stones. 

Christmas Time.. 

The Lesson of the Leaves. 

Thou Sun of Righteousness. 

Once for alL.. 

Nicely Saved.. 

God-. 

Except a Man be Born Again.. 

And the Earth Was Without Form. 

A Modern Pharisee. 

The Mystic Vine. 

Love’s Sacrificial Flame.. 

When Love Inter feres.. 

Guardians of theWay.. 

That a Man Lay Down His Life_ 

My Mother.. 

Afterwards.-. 

The Artist’s Vision.. 

Soul-acquaintance.. 

The Two Stones.-. 

IX. Miscellaneous. 

Why I Bother the Editors.. 

No Trouble with the Map.... 

To be a Poet... 

The Fashions Since Time Was... 

The Wanderer’s Heritage...-. 

The Child’s Pronouns. 

Who Hath Not Seen.. 

The Grasshopper.. 

Imagination.-. 

Mj^tery.. 

A Doctor’s Prayer.-. 

Millais’ Knight at the Ford. 

Entertaining Suspicion.. 

Truth... 

Progressive Patriotism.-. 


. 88 

. 89 

. 91 

. 92 

95 

, 99 

.102 

107 

.107 

.107 

.107 

.107 

.108 

.108 

.108 

.108 

.109 

.109 

.109 

.110 

.110 

.113 

.114 

.115 

.116 

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.119 

.120 

120 

.121 

.121 

.122 

.123 

.124 

.124 

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.126 

.126 

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.131 

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.132 

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SCOTCH THISTLES 













SCOTCH THISTLES 


13 


Coax, I Will. 

To A. A. G. 


Coom, noo, an’ put ma plaidie roun’ 
Yer shoulders, dear, 

An’ cast that ither ane aside. 

It looks sae drear. 

Na that! Weel, noo, 

I like that too. 

Those be yer forbears’ colors true. 

But say, just keep’t for petticoat. 

An’ don the Grant for redingote. 

Na? That willst neither? Then, I pray. 

Just tak this bit 

Wee rag o’ it 

An’ night an’ day. 

Wear’t next yer heart. 

Then though I look the gayer part 
Your heart shall gladly sing. 

An* with a singin’ heart, m’ dear 
Just bid goodbye to ev’ry fear. 

’Twill bring you everything. 



14 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


A Ballade True of Heraldrie. 

(Gordon and Grant.) 


Three bores they came to visit me, 

To visit me, to visit me! 

Three wild bores came to visit me. 

And play a little game. 

The reason why they’re callM wild. 

They’re call’d wild, they’re callM wild, 

The reason why they’re called wild, 

Their manners were that same. 

I sat them down to tit-tat-toe 
By placing checkers in a row, 

A game that’s named “go-bang” you know, 

To place five checkers in a row. 

Your men —and win the game. 

Those bores they stayed and played and played— 
So bound to win their game; 

And when five checkered kings were placed 
Two of those boars were tame. 

Their tusks were changed to glistening crowns, 

And one old boar went lame. 



SCOTCH THISTLES 


15 


The Battle. 


Twa Gorden men, 

Twa Gordon men 
Be ours for aye I 
Ye dinna ken? 

Well, ance they stole our queen awa’ 

She wha in lo’e had led them a’. 

A Gordon man had snitched her. Ah! 
She showed it plain as day. 

She nickt her nifty rosebud lip, 

A Scottish gesture she let slip. 

’Twas Gordon! Crowns upon it flip. 
We lost the day. 

An’ sine, we are, by day or nicht. 

Quite willin’ to renew the ficht. 

An’ souse them gestures till the lioht 
On them shall play. 



16 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Accurate Report. 

Of course, I wasna’ there at a’ 

At that last meetin’ in the fa’ 

O’ twentieth year. 

O’ its success I hae no doot, 

Ye couldna’ put a clansman oot, 

From a’ I hear. 

They wrote aboot it far an’ near. 

An’ though ther letters war no clear, 

I judge they chattered. 

Four minute speeches, spread on reams! 

But if they left the House o’ Dreams, 

Sma’ bit it mattered. 

For some, perhaps, all hootch denied ’em, 
On outlawry they seemed to pride ’em. 

An’ maudlin jokes. 

An’ sentiment o’ mushy texture. 

(At slams like this if ye are vext—you’re 
Nae doot no hoax.) 

Our Johnny’s nose nae doot thev followed 
An’ Adam’s ale they cheerful swallowed. 

An’ pledged again 

A proud allegiance to our tribesfolk. 

An’ laughter always for the clan joke. 

Then said amen. 

Noo, mind, I said I wasna’ there. 

I ken, though, mony reporters mair 
Than me, hae told 
Aboot a meetin’ they hae heard on. 

I seek a clan reporter’s guerdon, 

Ma pen’s na sold. 



SCOTCH THISTLES 


17 


At H-Hall. 


Once there was a little girl 
That danced the Highland Fling, 

Skipped and threw her feet about 
’Most like a “pigeon wing,” 

Held her right arm up as straight 
And stiff as anything. 

Twice there were two other girls— 

No, that’s not right to say. 

For both were there at that one time 
Piano notes to play. 

That done, though well or illy done. 

They watched the lassie gay. 

A plaid Scotch bonnet topped her locks, 

A kilt fell to her knees, 

A coat of velvet, silken sash— 

A costume sure to please; 

And over crossed swords, in and out. 

She danced with perfect ease. 

Four eyes there were, beholding her. 

Two minds that moved as one 

That time, at least, for they both longed 

That fling once to have flung. 

Say, sister, don’t those tinkling sounds 
Of “practice” make you young? 

SH- 

[The plaid was not so gay as ours—some plaids are dour—but 
’twas well done, the dance. 






18 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Swish. 


When our old mare, she swished her tail 
’Twas difficult to see 
Just which old mare had swished her tail, 
For old mares there were three. 

When three old mares stand tails to wind. 
And nostrils spread for air. 

And all three swish their tails like one, 
A mighty swish is there. 

Heigh ho! Heigh ho! 

The doctors, oh! 

Our lines trace back to Adam. 

Wouldst know how mumps and measles feel? 
You’ll know when you have had ’em. 


Come Away. 


Come away to the bonny, sweet river we know 
Where the Delaware’s waters so placidly flow. 
Come away, in your thought, and enact once again 
The brave pageant set forth by our women and men. 

Oh, a brush of the shoulder was part of the game. 
Whether royal knight errant or clown, ’twas the same. 
And the brush of their wits with the ladies so fair 
Was the best of the reasons we loved to be there. 

Come away, then, in thought and let mem’ry keep green 
The sweet favors so freely bestowed by our queen, 
And whenever the Mores greet each other may they 
Breathe a cheer for our clan, love our country for aye. 



SCOTCH THISTLES 


19 


The Merry More Clan. 

By Annie More Dodge and Anne More. 

From the mountains of Scotland our ancestors brave, 
John More and his Betty, through perils of wave 
And perils of forest, to Delaware came. 

And the Delaware hills still resound with his name. 

Chorus—We’re glad that he came and came here to stay, 
He’s a man to be proud of in more than one way, 
Then let us all cheer, every one, to a man. 
Hurrah! we belong to the Merry More Clan! 

He was canny and Scotch, he was brave, he was true; 

Full half of the credit to Betty is due; 

That eight bonny children their union did bless. 

Is a cause for rejoicing we cousins confess. 

Chorus. 


From the rivers of Maine out to Oregon’s shores. 
From Florida’s sands to the lakes are found Mores. 
With a cousinly hand-clasp they greet every man 
Who bears the name More or belongs to the clan. 

Chorus. 


Let us hope while by hand-clasp our fealty’s shown. 
That the virtues of ancestry still may be known. 

All purposes noble each clansman fulfill. 

And the God of our fathers be reverenced still. 


Chorus—We’re glad to be here—too bad we can’t stay 
We all are united in a cousinly way. 

Then let us all cheer, every one to a man. 
Hurrah! We belong to the Merry More Clan. 
























II 

Of Local Color 

























OF LOCAL COLOR 


23 


Fairmount. 


O peaceful suburb, lying where 
Thy gentle southern slope 
The watchful eye of yonder town 
Guards carefully—I hope 
When my time comes to shuffle off 
The irksome mortal coil, 

They lay this tenement away 
In thy caressing soil. 

Where else, think’st thou, would Mother Earth 

So lovingly embrace 

This house of clay, as in thy bounds. 

So near my native place? 

Sweet Fairmount, kindly shines the sun 
And gently fall the showers. 

To bring so rich a verdure on 
These treasured mounds; and flowers 
Bloom freely where the tender care 
Of loving hands is shown. 

Oh Fairmount, ’tis no evil day 
When thou receiv’st thine own. 

The winds are tempered on the slope, 

A haven, thou, of rest. 

Do thou receive my body, when 
My soul goes on its quest. 



24 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Crows on Sammis Hill. 


Away across the pasture land, 

Beyond the upper fence, 

The crows now leave their feeding ground 
And evening flights commence. 

As up and up and up they come 
By hundreds, hundreds more 
Replace them from the maple trees 
While they are flying o’er 

To shelter mongst the friendly pines 
That keep their stately guard 
Above memorials to the dead. 

Dry urn and frost and shard. 

Against a smoothly scarlet sky 
The crows fly. Sharp and black 
Their outlines show, and smooth and swift 
Their wings move up and back. 

They soar, they swoop, and melting curves 
Would mark each airy flight 
If we might see the ether waves 
Like tangled skeins of light. 

The cawing voices hoarsely blend 
With softer evening sounds. 

And each crow seems to vie with each 
To make once more their rounds 

From tall pines out to maple tops 
And down to stubbly ground; 

Then up, and up, and up they rise 
With softly whirring sound. 

Their wings the cool sweet autumn air 
Beat blithely, and they feel 
The beauty of the scarlet sky 
Until they swerve and reel. 




OF LOCAL COLOR 


25 


Some drop and sway as though o’ercome, 
Then with a fresh intake 
Of vigor, poise and fly away 
And rising circles make. 

The dusk of nightfall settles down, 

The evening lamps shine forth. 

The black crows fold their wings. We see 
The star that marks due north. 



26 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Building. 


Oh, the Woodman’s axe is sounding as it did in days of yore, 

And the Indians are stealthy in their tread, 

But the builders keep on building till the walls rise as before. 

For they’re pledged to keep the Master at the head. 

Let the songs of our thanksgiving from our hearts that beat as one. 
Like a hallelujah chorus now arise, 

For the tasks to which we’ve pledged oxirselves we’re glad we have begun. 
We shall wrest predestined Polo from the skies. 

There are those who see its turrets in the gleam of setting sun, 

Or the rosy glow of sunrise far away. 

While the noonday heat and scorching light the laborer must shun 
Keep the fairer vision distant day by day. 

We terrestrians with trowel and with pick axe and with spade, 
With the plow, the needle, anvil, hoe and wheel. 

With the pen and brush and spatula and all that ever made 
For the righteous civic ardor that we feel- 

We will seixe the present moment, we will use the present hour. 

We will make our fairest dreams from earth uprise. 

And the city that we should create we will endue with power. 

We will wrest predestined Polo from the skies. 




OF LOCAL COLOR 


27 


Invitation to Dine. 


Oh, who will come dine at the Gingerbread Inn, 

There's fish there on Fridays a plenty. 

The chairs are all set to the tables. We’ve been 
Expectin’ there’d be nigh to twenty. 

On Mondays there’s fish of a different sort, 

On Tuesdays there’s anglin’ with bait, 

On Wednesdays there’s castin’ a line in good sport, 

On Thursdays there’s Captain and mate. 

And when we have really had fish that we eat 
On Fridays, as mentioned before. 

When Saturday comes then the sport can’t be beat, 

We have fish round the table once more. 

They poise with the delicate wave of a fin. 

Their eyes can see through many waters. 

They’re attached to their pool; some are fat, some are thin 
They are sons, mothers, fathers and daughters. 

On Sunday it almost amounts to a school. 

When sermons have seemed too pedantic. 

But always there’s some fish that’s playing the fool 
And others are watching each antic. 

Come in, while the waters are troubled, good friend, 

From upstream or downstream, in passing. 

The food is the best, of good cheer there’s no end, 

If there isn’t high talk there is gassing. 



28 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Old Town Hall. 


Refrain—The Hall, the hall, the good old hall! 

We will stand by the hall 
And strengthen every wall 
And never let them fall 
In the hall. 

The hall, the hall, the grand old hall! 

The old Town Hall! 

From here with solemn steps and slow 
They bore the friends whom death laid low, 

While prayerful hearts and tearful eyes 
Told how with each all sympathize. 

Refrain-—The Hall, the hall, etc. 

’Twas here historic tales were told 
Of relics, showing wealth untold 
Of lives lived bravely, death well met 
And work well done, lest we forget. 

Refrain—The Hall, the hall, etc 

'Twas here with fierce debate and loud 
The legal lights with accents proud 
Contended while the populace 
Reflections passed—from face to face. 

Refrain—The Hall, the hall, etc. 

’Tis here the clubs, the clans, the bats. 

The basket fives, the fans, the mats,— 

In fact the towns inhabitants— 

Contend, with pomp and circumstance. 

Refrain—-The Hall, the hall, etc. 

The walls are cracked, the colors bad. 

The whole interior's gone mad; 

Yet we can make the rafters ring 
When we let out our voice and sing 

Refrain—The Hall, the hall, etc. 

We come from shack and bungalow 
From homes of wealth, not vulgar show; 

We wear our love like cap and gown 
To make the Spirit of the Town. 

Refrain—The Hall, the hall, etc. 




OF LOCAL COLOR 


29 


Polo’s Civic Pride. 


You smile when we begin to talk 
About our little town 
And say that it already is 
A place of some renown? 

You never meet a Poloite 
In wanderings North or South 
But has the praises of his town 
Forever in his mouth? 

You’ll swear that every Poloite 
When traveling East or West, 

Compares our town with other towns 
And boasts it is the best? 

You think that all our citizens 
Begin at early morn, 

And spend their time, the livelong day 
In tooting Polo’s horn? 

Well, maybe we’re afflicted some 
With that disease called “Brag.” 
Perhaps we do permit our tongues 
Too boastfully to wag; 

But after all is said, we know 
Though some may criticize. 

Of all the towns on earth it’s quite 
The biggest, for its size. 




30 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Lines on the Old Cannon in the School-yard. 


Honor to our noble soldiers! 

May their fame be, near and far, 
Guarded by the peace they fought for. 
Not the panoply of war! 

Grim and awful! Must our children 
Grow accustomed to the sight 
Of the great death-dealing monster 
Till they think its use is right? 

If it must be in the school-yard, 

Let it, pray, be under ground. 

Covered (like the martyred soldiers) 
By a peaceful, grass-grown mound. 

O'er the cannon’s deep interment 
Bid each father and each son 
Solemnly, to strew his handful 
Of earth's soil, to hide the gun. 

While the women and the children. 

Silent, stand about and pray 
“Grant, Lord, we may never suffer 
Such another evil day!’’ 

Lord forbid we should belittle 
The true meaning of that strife 
Or obscure the child’s perceptions 
Of the sacredness of life. 

Honoring our nation’s heroes. 

Let us every talent bend 
To the bringing of the era 
When all wars shall be at end. 





OF LOCAL COLOR 


31 


The Affair on the Steamship Georgia. 

All ye who love this maiden well 
(Ein stisse stimme Deutsche belle) 

Come listen to the tale I tell, 

A tale of the Steamship Georgia. 

The waters of the lake were cold, 

The cabin shone in white and gold. 

And along with the rest went a dentist bold 
A-sailing upon the Georgia. 

Oh picture it! Ye surely can— 

That fateful moment when maid and man 
First met—when this little affair began— 

This affair on the Steamship Georgia. 

They tripped the light fantastic toe. 

They sang, they gazed down at the lake below, 
They whiled away many long hours, you know, 
While aboard of the Steamship Georgia. 

And when appeared the island shore 
That dentist arose in his might and swore 
By all the gods, and the smile SHE wore. 

He’d not say good-bye on the Georgia. 

And as they strolled upon the quay. 

That maiden’s auntie smiled with glee, 

A musing on what things might be 
Along of a trip on the Georgia. 

And think ye that this tale is told— 

The tale of the maid and the dentist bold? 

This is not a tale of love grown cold 
At the end of a trip on the Georgia. 

Oh ye little birds, fly east, fly west. 

And whisjjer the news. ’Tis no longer a jest. 

Bid the friends of the maid be prepared for the rest 
Of this tale that began on the Georgia. 

Oh ye maidens all, come list to me! 

I sing of the fish that are still in the sea. 

There may yet be a dear little fish for thee. 

Take heart from this tale of the Georgia. 




32 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


‘‘He’s Bad. 


»> 


“He’s bad” they said with one accord. 

As wagged each hoary head 
Of village uncles at the store 
“He’s awful bad’’ they said. 

“He steals and lies, and swears, and bids 
Defiance to all laws.’’ 

These facts they stated solemnly. 

As for a holy cause. 

And who this creature so depraved. 

So lost to sense of shame,— 

The howling terror of the town? 

I sought to know his name. 

Who, think you, was this awful man, 

Of men, the worst alive. 

This creature whom they all decried? 

’Twas Thomas Brown—aged five. 

Now Thomas was well known to me 
And with mine ears I’d heard. 

The while mine eyes had seen, that these 
Occurrences occurred: 

This enterprising little youth 
Could frequently be found 
Where men do congregate and smoke 
And spit and sit around. 

One hoary headed veteran 
Of war had once let out 
A ripping oath,—as unaware 
That Thomas was about. 

And one had handed him a chew 
Of “baccy” from his pouch. 

’Twas just to see what he would do— 
But for the fact I’ll vouch. 



OF LOCAL COLOR 


33 


And one had told a moving tale 
Of fierce police, in search 
Of boys—and watched the baby pale 
(Yet this man goes to church). 

And when the boy, to lies inured, 

To lawless deeds did dare. 

He glared upon the culprit then • 
As righteous men can glare. 

Yes, when this lad's career began 
These same men thought it cute 
To see him buy a nickel's worth 
And filch a bit to boot. 

They laughed to hear his quick retort 
To teasing jests, and i^raised 
His wit; and now he’s impudent 
And they are all amazed. 

Alack, alas and well-a-day 
It seemeth to me sad 
The very men he emulates 
Consider Thomas bad. 



34 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Pines. 


So soft to our tread is the pine-needle carpet, 

It coaxes our feet down the aisles twixt tall trees,— 
Slender columns, so stately; and would you believe it? 
There plays hide and seek here a cool little breeze. 

Sit down on this log; let the cool breeze be blowing 
All cares and anxieties far, far away. 

Look up! High above you the blue sky is showing, 

With clouds, white and fleecy, like lambkins at play. 

Far below may be heard the soft ripple of waters. 
By-and-bye we’ll climb down to the murmuring stream; 
But now we will listen awhile to the voices 
Of birds in the treetops, sit idly and dream. 

Let the train clatter by. Though it wakes noisy echoes 
Beneath the stone arch, it will leave us the cool 
Limpid waters below, to give back the reflection. 

Stone for stone, of the bridge mirrored there in the pool. 

Drink in the fresh air, joyful youth, and worn worker. 
The lifegiving balsam that builds and restores. 

And return to your tasks! Who would shirk is a traitor. 
After rest in “The Pines”—best of God’s out-of-doors. 



OF LOCAL COLOR 


35 


When Baby Ran Away. 


We rung the loud alarm bells out 
Upon a day in May 
And told it to the neighbors 
How our baby ran away. 

Oh, in his heart was innocence 
And on his head was hair, 

What odds, when such a tiny knight, 

The rest of him was bare? 

He scattered little, loving laughs; 

His tiny, dimpled hands 
Beat joyously the air, as did 
His tiny feet the sands. 

With vigor did this warrior 
Resist his quick arrest. 

And all his joy was turned to tears 
Upon his mother’s breast. 

And oh, what fierce beligerance 
The age of seven will show 
When added years bar baby tears 
And taunting mates, who know 

Of all the baby episodes, 

Begin to tease and tell, 

And make him mad, and bold and bad, 
He’ll want to pound and yell. 

Fight manfully, my little lad. 

And keep your temper sweet. 

And bravely put on all the clothes 
That make your suit complete. 

Your mind may, some day go quite bare 
Before the minds of all; 

So keep it clean, and strong, and keen 
While you are growing tall. 



36 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Spring Again. 


March is such a muddy month, 

With snow and wind and rain, 

All the farmers’ togs are soiled. 

And spoiled with sweat and stain. 

Still, while all the trees are bare. 

And houses lacking paint, 

And back yards still disorderly. 

We’d best make no complaint. 

Just you wait till April comes. 

And all the buds that swell 
Burst forth into leafy joy— 

Spring goods will be to sell. 

Jeans of festive navy blue 
And khakis, green or tan, 

Mackintoshes, many-hued, 

Laced boots for every man. 

Get in tune with nature’s work. 

She puts the colors out. 

Tub your old clothes or buy new, 

And let the colors shout. 

Why, that bit of heavenly blue 

You see across the field 

(Just a washed-out blue-jean coat) 

Will help increase the yield. 

Plow your field, that nature may 
Redecorate the earth. 

Green and black stripes change to gold 
What will your corn be worth? 

Joy won’t hinder any work. 

It’s in the plan for spring, 

Can’t you sing a line or two, 

Or whistle anything? 



OF LOCAL COLOR 


37 


May-time. 


What’s the way we walk along 
When our feet go straying 
Out among the trees and grass 
As we go a-maying? 

Cowslips here, and bleeding hearts, 
Ferns and ruddy maples,— 

Shoots about the parent tree. 

Colors are our staples. 

What a glorious, gorgeous brush 
Nature wields this morning. 

All the wintry barrenness 
Clothed with fresh adorning. 

Swinging arms, steps free and long, 
Leaving cares behind us. 

Trolling many an idle song. 

For no one will mind us,— 

That’s the way we walk along 
When we’re led away, sir. 

By the vagabond called “Joy” 

In the month of May, sir. 



38 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Rain-drops. 

The slanting rain beats the muddy street, 

The branches toss and the sky looms black, 

And the slanting wires of the telephone. 

Criss-crossed by the rain, make a double track. 

There the raindrops gather and catch the light. 
And in dots and dashes their message send 
To the weary watcher whose tired eyes 
Turn from the basket of stockings to mend. 

Oh, little drops in the gathering gloom 
How swiftly they catch and reveal the light. 
Hurry and scurry and so overtake 
Other wee drops, to make dashes bright. 

Along the wires they merrily go 

As long as the rain comes slanting down. 

Repeating their miracle message of love: 

There is no malice in nature’s frown. 


November. 

Away off on the edge of things 
The trees'loom large and dim, 

While near at hand the little hills 
Mark sharp each valley’s rim. 

And smoke filled hazes mauvely blur 
The outlines everywhere. 

The wind goes rushing through the pines, 
Great billows in the air. 

Dry cornstalk colors fill the eyes 
Until they seek relief 

Where flaming sumach ’gainst blue skies 
Makes beauty past belief. 

And all the little wild rose stems, 

Among the stubble grays. 

Display their joyful autumn gowns 
As proud as in June days. 




OF LOCAL COLOR 


30 


All Flesh is as Grass. 

I walked along by the waving grass 
And watched it bend and sway 
Just to let the little breezes pass 
Rejoicing on their way. 

Again I watched it madly lashed 
By winds that bellowing ran 
Across the field until they crashed 
Against the barns and van. 

What harm can come to the waving grass 
Though storms may lay it low? 

It bends and waits till the sun comes out 
And makes it taller grow. 

In the crowds of people that come and go 
Or stand in the city street, 

I catch a glimpse like the grassy flow 
And ebb in the meadow sweet. 

There’s a something finer than summer air 
In the crowds as they pass or sway 
To right or left, with an easy care 
Maintaining their right of way. 

A passing glance, the bend of an arm, 

A smile, or a cheery word. 

And another neighbor is saved from harm 
Where the voice of God is heard. 




40 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Little Brown Hill. 


When the little brown hill uplifts itself 
Between me and my home, 

I thank the Lord for my inglenook, 

Without a wish to roam. 

Just over that hill is my inglenook,— 

Then sup by my own fireside, 

A book, or a friend, and a fire alight 
And nowhere afield to ride. 

Oh, the little brown hill has a smile for me, 

Though its veil, either green or snow. 

In summer or winter doth hide its face. 

Its warm brown face aglow. 

The best of all is its springtime look. 

Though bare and bleak to some. 

When the planter’s dreams for the virgin soil 
Make the very welkin hum. 

Oh the seeds and the weeds and the winds that blow 
Have a contest on that hill, 

And God Almighty sends rain and shine 
To help work the planter’s will. 

So the little brown hill uplifts itself 
Between me and my home, 

God grant that the rain and the sun and man 
Bring fruits from the rich brown loam. 



OF LOCAL COLOR 


41 


March Frost Prints. 


Slender pines, with starry tassels; 

Mountain heights, far distant castles. 
Winding roads through forests dense,' 
Suggestions of an old rail fence. 

Fallen trees athwart streams lying. 

Bowerlike depths inviting prying, 

Mossy pendants, blossoming boughs, 
Meadows where fat sheep might browse. 

Trees that bear small, finished fruit. 
Screening caves that hide thieves’ loot; 
Diamond-spraying waterfall; 

Ponds with starfish, large and small. 

All this wealth of scenic wonder 
Gladly from Jack Frost I plunder. 

O’er his etchings on the pane 
“Wonderful” I say again. 


Sunday Morning. 


As I walk down the lime-stone path 
What are fifty years? 

Nothing! Blown away like chaff, 
A long-past morn appears. 

Memories can rend the tombs 
Where mounds are rounded over. 
From my graves I pluck a sprig 
Of dandelion—clover. 

Families, and nations, blend; 

Something new is wrought. 

Did all conspire just for this end? 

Else, labor is for naught. 



42 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Another Heritage. 


A mind that loved pattern and texture there was 
With a passion for Wowledge of craft for the hands, 

And the lad read and grew, 

And he pondered, and knew 

That in ours were all beauties that crown foreign lands 
And he bravely set forth just to learn of the laws. 

In the mills with the workers of textures he learned; 

In the fields with the sheep, with the cotton and flax; 
Where the laden ships ride 
By the great ocean’s side; 

Where the stokers were feeding tall flame-belching stacks, 
By the sweat of his brow his knowledge he earned. 

Cut down like the Flanders lads swiftly was he 
And the craft of his hands and the words he would say 
They were stopped, they were gone, 

'Twixt one sunset and dawn; 

When we asked was he there they perforce said us nay; 
But his will and his thought, tell us, pray, where they be? 

Are we heirs, like the lad, with the makers of cloth, 

With the weavers of patterns, the toilers in mills. 

To the power by which man 
(Like gold washed in the pan). 

Weaves new beauty from somber threads, such as he w ills 
Such a love, such a power, bids a good-bye to sloth. 



OF LOCAL COLOR 


43 


Prosperity. 


Prosperity is like an elf 

Who waits outside the door 
For folks to all join hands again 
Where they've prepared a floor, 

For he would lead a New Year dance 
Around a Maypole high. 

Old winter seems as glad as spring 
Whenever he is nigh. 

Then shall we let the good sprite in 
And join the merry dance, 

Or fold our arms and turn our heads 
And look at him askance? 

For when our townsfolk, hand in hand, 
Combine for work and play, 

A right good fellow in their midst 
Prosperity will stay. 



44 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Art Club Review. 


To Friends of the Old Shakespeare Art Club: 

During the summer of 1902, Mrs. Emma S. W., Miss May M, and 
the writer compiled (and typed the necessary dozen copies of) an art 
program for the Shakespeare Club. We followed almost word for 
word a synopsis of a course of lectures by Mrs. Sherwood of Chicago, 
given to the Clio or the Noonday Rest Club. For the first meeting 
of our Club (at the home of Miss P.) the following year, the writer 
was asked to furnish a “review,” and presented the following lines. 
At the close of the reading. Miss Sarah W. made very kindly com- 
rnents and suggested that the “review” be printed. Feeling at the 
time that it was hardly worthy of that destiny, I withheld it. Now, 
thinking of the great pleasure enjoyed during those years of study 
of the Old Masters, with gratitude to Miss W. as my sponsor for ad¬ 
mission to the Club, and with the hope that the lines may be of some 
use, I am, in this year 1922, publishing them in print. 

Anne More. 


Dear friends, ere I begin this pleasant task, 
’Tis fitting that your pardon I should ask. 

And kind indulgence crave, if, lacking wit 
To write a proper, scholarly and fit 
Review, I seek behind the mask of rhyme 
To hide my ignorance, and fill the time. 

Oh, well-remembered eve, October last. 

When we assembled as in seasons past. 
Perhaps this time more serious intent 
Impelled us—we were all on study bent. 

We tackled Art that night with vigorous hand 
And dug its traces from Egyptian sand: 
Symbolic paintings, flat in tint, that show. 
Despite restrictions strange indeed, the glow 
Of artist souls. What reverential awe 
Inspired the masses who the splendour saw 
Of pyramids, and sphinx, and temples grand. 
Reflecting ancient worship of that land. 
Immense mysterious courts, colossal halls. 
Majestic statues, columns, massive walls— 
How joyless, though with majesty sublime. 
These towering records of that ancient time! 




ART CLUB REVIEW 


The second evening! Where should one begin 
To name the varied themes that entered in 
Those deep discussions? Could one ever tell 
The story of that night—how it befell, 

With five well-written papers billed for one 
Short evening, we had really scarce begun 
When time to close? If from that vast array 
Of facts, compiled with care, we brought away: 

One Buddhist image, one Assyrian bull 
With outspread wings, one hanging-garden full 
Of palms and oriental plants, and (from Japan) 

A gateway and a decorated fan. 

From Mexico a curious altar-stone 
(Or was it from Peru?),—why, this alone, 

A jumble though it seems, did well repay 
Our leaders’ work, compiling the array. 

The Parthenon, that perfect work of art. 

With care we studied: each essential part 
So perfect in design, so subtly wrought. 

To give exactly the impression sought. 

While marvelous sculptured groups adorn the frieze. 
The world scarce knows a greater work than these. 
The five great styles of architecture now 
Engage our careful thought and we learn how 
The cornice, frieze and architrave and base. 

The shaft and capital, each has its place, 

And, varying, different orders they maintain: 
Corinthian, Doric, and Ionic, plain. 

The masterpieces next of Grecian art 
We study; and we’re led to see the part 
Development has played. With no great bound 
Did Grecian art spring full-grown from the ground. 
Through cruder stages, showing less of grace. 

That perfect art developed in its place. 

And wrought the Hermes of Praxiteles, 

The Niobe, and wonders such as these. 

From such perfection through a period drear 
Of art decadent—we’ll not linger here. 

Though by “mosaics” and “Byzantine tints” 

Some knowledge of the period we evince, 

Pisano’s work in Pisa’s baptistry, 







46 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Ghiberti’s doors at Florence we would see, 

And Donatello’s famous low relief, 

And Della Robbia’s babies—to be brief. 

In Cimabue’s long-drawn forms we see 
A great advance in painting, soon to be 
Surpassed by Giotto’s work. [Right here began 
A vigorous rivalry. Each one “her man’’ 
Extolled, and claimed him as the very best. 
Which gave to our discussions added zest.] 
Orcagno’s “Judgment,” and Massacio’s “nudes’ 
With these Italian paintings “dawn” concludes. 

Angelico the blessed, free from stain 
Of evil living, ushers in a train 
Of sweet-faced, rich-robed angels; in his wake 
Filippo Lippi, something of a rake 
If history speaks truly, yet he paints. 

With powerful hand, madonnas, angels, saints. 
And Botticelli, faulty though his art. 

Has yet enough of genius to impart 
To figures, foliage, quite everything 
Presented in his masterpiece called “Spring,” 

A life and movement like the ver}’^ breath 
Of spring itself. 

Now on, to scenes of death! 

Of Ghirlandago’s frescoes, ’mong the rest. 

His “Funeral of St. Francis” is the best. 
Mantegna, Paduan master, first to engrave 
His own designs,—in tempera he gave. 

Among a number of great works and fine, 

A series of cartoons, in number nine. 

Of Julius Caesar’s triumphs. After this 
Perugino’s mild-faced knights we must not 
An open skeptic, dying unconfessed, 

A shrewd, commercial painter at the best. 

Yet master of the Urbrian school was he, 

By Raphael’s genius soon surpassed to be. 

Italian art in its “midsummer glow” 

We next consider, and in doing so 
DaVinci’s universal genius see. 

Admire his portrait full of majesty. 


miss. 



ART CLUB REVIEW 


47 


And more and more his talents rare revere 
As sculptor, architect and engineer. 

How Mona Lisa’s smile inscrutable, 

With thoughts fantastic and wierd fancies full, 

Still haunts us! How DaVinci’s hand 
Combined symbolic art with drama grand, 

Depicting the effect of one brief word • 

From Christ, divine, by twelve disciples heard! 

Del Sarto the Italians “Faultless” named. 

For exquisite perfection he was famed 
In all that goes to make what’s called “technique.” 
Through all the world of painting we might seek 
For rarer coloring, or for light and shade 
More subtly handled; yet his work betrayed 
A lack of inspiration, depth and thought. 

His wife, a “worthless woman,” doubtless brought 
A low and sordid influence to his life. 

And nobler talents waged a losing strife. 

Among the great Italians, ne’er the less, 

His rank is with the highest, all confess. ' 

Coreggio, too, a master of technique. 

Of life and joy in life his pictures speak, 

Madonna’s, Magdalen’s, or Leda’s face. 

Is pictured with the same voluptuous grace. 

His chiaroscuro, management of light. 

From dim obscurity to radiance bright, 

With delicate reflections, softly blent, 

Transparent shadows—this it is that lent 
Peculiar charm to all Coreggio wrought; 

For this he sacriflced what others sought 
By way of style exalted, great design 
Or grouping strong or perfectness of line. 

Yet as we joy in his “Nativity,” 

His saints and cherubs, “faultless,” too, seems he. 

At last we come to Michael Angelo, 

That giant master-artist. Would you know 
How great his work, how full his life, how vast 
The space he fills, not only in the prst. 

But now, and on, consult some greater one 
Than I. Although with high resolve begun 



48 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


This task becomes too great—and not one line 
Can such a feeble pen, forsooth, as mine, 
Contribute, even in this light review, 

On such a theme. I leave him all to you. 

On Raphael’s genius how we love to dwell 
And here my pen, though feeble, won’t rebel,— 

The beautiful was his especial field 
And here the place of first to him all yield. 

His guiding star was beauty. Raphael was 
In truth the greatest of them all because 
Most comprehensive, blending as he did 
The mystic and the naturalist. He hid 
These two opposing forces,—so to speak. 

By faithful study of the pure antique 
And reverent quest of nature. He combined 
With Grecian elegance the Christian mind. 

Bellini, first of the Venetian school— 

He had that “golden touch” which, as a rule, 
Venetian painters had, more fully though 
Than any other. In a golden glow 
His proud madonnas bear the Christ aloft. 

Not held in motherly embraces soft. 

In Titian greatest of his century see! 

His hundred-year-long life appears to be 
Much favoured by the gods. His portraits wear 
A personality no others share, 

Exert a sort of fascinating power. 

And “have not been excelled” up to this hour. 

Who can th’ impulsive vehemence forget 
Of Tintoretto? We can see it yet— 

That shining figure of St. Mark, fast hurled 
From heaven, to save one, suffering, in this world; 
Or where that saint’s soul moves the lightning’s ray 
The while his friends his body bear away. 

Georgione’s pictures landscapes introduce. 

Of method called “in tempera” he made use 
And glazed in oil. The colors still remain 
And brilliance and transparency retain. 



ART CLUB REVIEW 


49 


The Ancient German master, Wolgemuth, 

Was master to an artist rare in truth, 

For Albrecht Duerer, though he loved the art 

Of Italy, yet kept himself apart 

From foreign influence, loyal to his race^ 

Though borrowing something from Italian grace. 
One panel small, Golgotha’s bleakness shows 
And Him whose earthly life there met its close. 

In Holbein’s portraits mirrored sure as fate 
Great dignitaries of the church and state 
Are seen, and characters are written there. 

For every feature is portrayed with care. 

The Dutch and Flemish school brings in Van Eyck 
(Two brothers, Jan and Hubert) and the like 
Of Memlinc, Massys, Romersvael, de Bles. 

Of Rubens we have somewhat more to see: 

Of noble birth and life, and learning deep 
And genius rare,—no wonder that we keep 
(Forgetting others in a little while) 

A vivid recollection of his style. 

All types of human nature he has shown, 

Most “realistic flesh tints” ever known. 

VanDyck aspired to subjects great and high, 

And yet the work he’s most remembered by, 

Like Titian, is his faculty so rare 
Of painting portraits, for he seized with care 
Distinctive features, and portrayed a type 
In every portrait, by his genius ripe. 

Of Rembrandt’s burghers and physicians keen, 
Upon whose faces focused light is seen 
Against dark backgrounds, surely at command 
We call these pictures up, and near at hand 
See rise old Eleazar Swalmius; 

Or see that other one so luminous. 

The Christ at supper with the lowly men. 

We love to see these o’er and o’er again. 

So—Cuyp’s clear landscapes, cattle, dogs and men; 
Van Ruysdael’s river banks, canals; and then 
To Wouverman’s horses, Hobbema’s sunny scenes 
And Potter’s famous cattle. By all means 



50 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


We must not overlook them near the end; 

Our interest they retain. No need t’ pretend. 

“Magician of the Brush” they called Franz Hals,— 

A line of powerful portraits this recalls 
With freedom quite superb and dash, and strength, 
Vivacity and charm.' If told at length 
’Twould interest all again in this great man; 

But we must “/?-as^en” past him if we can. 


For Dou and Metsu, Maas, Van Mieris, Steen, 
And Netscher, Schalken, Terburg, it is seen 
The time is short. (The muse is on the wane.) 
Van Ostade and de Hooch alone remain. 

Mere mention of these “Little Masters,” ten, 
Suffices now, with hopes “fo meet again.'* 




Ill 

Dialect Verse 





















DIALECT VERSE 


53 


Odahs. 

I 

Once you smell a real black smell 
Ah aint agoin’ to know 
Yo aint a niggah jest lak me, 

Though youse as white as snow. 

It’s made o’ earth, an’ chicken grease 
An’ wattah melon rines, an wool 
An’ cabins full o’ niggahs, cheese 
An’ possum. It’s a nostril full. 

An’ I say now, an’ youse kin jest 
Believe it whut I say, 

Ef youse could reelly sense that smell 
An’ smell it night an’ day, 

’Twould broaden out yer nose, an’ it 
Would paint yer features black, 

Yer ban’s would reach out fer rib bones 
To rattle tunes with. Smack 
Would go yer large black paw on knee 

An’ you’d be singin’ niggah songs, so glad you was set free. 

II 

Once you smell that real black smell 
Ef youse a little girl, 

Then ef yo hair is straight ez straight 
It will begin to curl. 

Yer face will turn ez black, ez black, 

Ez black, ez black, ez ink; 

Yo hair not only ’gin to curl, 

’Twill ’gin to friz an kink. 

Yo’ll Stan’ an’ put yo ban’s to waist 
An’ sway upon yo feet. 

An’ maybe shift yo’ soles a bit. 

An’ myl Yo will look sweet. 

An’ fom somewhah down in yo throat 
The music will well out. 

Yuh cahn’t contain yosef foh joy 
Yuh hafto sing an shout 
An’ clap yo little ban’s an’ roll 
Yo big brown eyes about. 




54 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


III 


But ef yo smell tobacco smell 
Now, be yo black or white, 

You’ll ’gin to smell an’ smell an’ smell, 

An’ smell with all yo’ might. 

They aint so powahful a smell, 

Not noway, anywheah, 

Ez that same ole tobacco smell 
To permeate the aiah. 

An as fer seein what they will 
Tobacco smellers do. 

But in a kinda hazy way 
Thet yo’ kin see right through. 

They sets an’ smokes, an’ smokes, and smokes’ 

Or else they chews an chews. 

An ef they wives an’ chillens lives 
Them wives an’ chillens dooes. 

Sometimes they takes in washin’ an’ iahnin o’ close 
Bekase they man hez spent his time a follerin’ his nose. 

IV 


Now, when wese educated to 
Right heavenly smells an’ clean— 

Jest lak yo’ haint no nose at all— 

Now lissen what ah mean. 

Ah mean the aiah that’s pure an’ good 
Breathed in, jest cleans yo’ up; 

Yo want to thow out all old stuff. 

Flap jacks an’ syrup cup. 

An’ bacon rines, an’ grease, an’ dirt, 

An’ swish the dust away, 

An’ even build a gran’ new house 
An move in it, an’ stay. 

You get religion once again 
When yo’ put smells aside. 

Why, gracious! See! Mah skin’s ’most white, 
Ah aint no dusky bride. 

Befo’ the Lawd! ah will keep clean— 

Now, lissen, ah say whut ah mean. 



DIALECT VERSE 


55 


Black and White. 


I 

Is the God of Africa black, oh Lord? 

Shall we build him up that way? 

Or are we a part of the perfect whole 
As night is a part of the day? 

II 

When de wite man comes to de dahkey’s do’ 
What witeness does he see? 

Jes’ de glistenin’ teef 
An’ de eyeballs, o’ 

An’ de gleamin’ palms, maybe. 

III 

Wen de brack man looks at de wite man, say. 
Wot brackness sees he dere? 

Oh, de centah of de eye 

Will to him be de way 

His colah will be matched, I declare. 

IV 

Now one time ah seed de brackness 
Gloomin’ in, upon de light, 

Fom a bare, uncurtained window 
Dot lit up de poch at night. 

V 

Was it cause de debbil’s workin’ 

Past de wite God wid his sin? 

Cahn’t it be de brack is shinin’ 

Cause it’s good? It must shine in. 

VI 

Whah de light is high an’ tawdry 
Den de brackness rests yo eye. 

(Like whah- i)o an’ cheap wite trash is 
Good clean niggahs stand full high!) 



56 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Jedgment of the Goats. 


When linin’ up fer werk again 
Where heroes fought an’ bled, 

Some goats kin stend the darkness 
An’ the bruisin’ of the head. 

I lissens in the blackness 
When other comferts fails 
An’ hears ’em chewin’ of their cuds, 
Wigwaggin’ with their tales. 

They’re learnin’ in the darkness 
To gether up the light. 

To quit “eternal punishment” 

An’ live by all that’s right. 

When God has let ’em sample 
The long, long night of sin 
No door to heaven will ever keep 
Them goats from buttin’ in. 


Two Pessimistic Views. 

I 

I say it can’t be did. 

Although it’s been begun, 

For folks won’t never, never do 
A thing they never done. 

II 

I tell you I’m agin it, sir! 

I’ll tell the reason, too: 

The same old thing was tried before 
And failed. Yes, sure, that’s true. 

You say these folks are different. 

The plan is not the same? 

Well, some darn scheme was tried and failed 
And some folks was to blame. 

And so I’m dead a^in it, sir, 

I don’t believe, twill go. 

And when the whole scheme has gone bust 
I’ll say I told you so. 




DIALECT VERSE 


57 


A Bugle Call. 


Blow the good old bugle boys, the sound will thrill us yet. 

Who that once was “mustered in” that call can e’er forget? 
Though we’re lame, decrepit, blind, gray headed, every “vet”— 
Still we are marching for Freedom. 

Others, too, now fall in line, with youthful step and free; 

Striplings these, with waving locks, not gray like you and me. 
Surely for a mighty cause this mustering must be. 

They, too, are marching for Freedom. 

See them come from every home, the mansion and the cot, 

Men to serve their country’s need with all the strength they’ve got. 
Let the martial music penetrate to every spot. 

Men are still marching for Freedom. 

Lay aside your musket though. Let sword in scabbard lie. 

Time enough to use them if they’re needed by-and-bye. 

Let us find a deeper, truer meaning in the cry 
“Let us be marching for Freedom.” 

Never must this martial music drown the inward voice 
Which will guide, in every issue, to the righteous choice. 

Let us use the power we have to make our land rejoice. 

Votes show men marching for Freedom. 

Think you that all foes are conquered, every battle won? 

Fierce and long some wars are waging, others just begun. 

Fall in, on the side of right, ye soldiers, everyone. 

We must be marching for Freedom. 

Freedom is the watchword still, and trust and brotherhood. 
Freedom in the highest sense, to serve the common good, 
Freedom from the evil, surely every patriot should 
With us be marching for Freedom. 



58 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Two Views of the Tax. 


I 

Sa;y^, do you know why a fellow 
Without chick or child in school 
Has to pay this durned old school-tax? 

Makes me feel like I’m a fool! 

What do I get fer this money? 

That’s what I should like to know. 

Seems to me it’s rank injustice 
When I’ve nary kid to show. 

That is what I’m wrathy over, 

That’s just what I kick about, 

I’m fer cutting down the taxes 

Or fer makin’ them shell out 

That has kids in school, you bet ya; 

I’d redistrict it some way 

So that you and I’d escape it. 

Let them other fellows pay. 

Here I’ve moved in from the country 
Just so I can take my ease, 

Sit and loaf or drive my auto, 

Or do anything I please. 

Think I’m going to stand for taxes 

Just to educate some kid 

That calls ‘‘dad” some other fellow? 

Let him pay the tax instid. 

That is what I’m wrathy over 
That’s just what I kick about 
I’m fer cutting down the taxes 
Or fer makin’ them shell out 
That has kids in school, you bet ya; 

I’d redistrict it some way 
So that I could keep my money. 

Let them other fellows pay. 


if 



DIALECT VERSE 


59 


II 

“Render to Caesar that which Caesar’s is” 

Who, then, today, is Caesar? You and I, 

And others, wielders of the vote, today. 

Make our own Caesar, monarch, to whom we 
Must tribute pay because it is his due. 

What manner of a monarch do we make. 

To levy tribute some, unwilling, pay 
And others by some trick or plea evade; 

While some [God bless them!] render cheerfully 
Their tax, as they to God give what is His. 

Is he a tyrant, who, for his own ends. 

That he and those who flatter him grow fat 
Upon the spoils he wrings from us. 

To whom we tribute pay? 

Sometimes, alas, he seems to be—so much 
Do base corruptions, like to tares, grow rank. 

Is he a cringing monarch, full of fear. 

Lest some among his subjects, in revolt, 

Repudiate the tax, and rise in wrath, 

Loth to contribute to the good of all 
And seeking their own will at any cost? 

Ah, no, but a just ruler, wise and good 
Composite blend of all who cast the vote. 

Pledged to make use unselfishly and for 
The public good, of all the wealth that falls 
Into his coffers from the public tax. 

A monarch just, who loves his subjects, all. 

This sovereign—“we, the people” rightly named. 
In whom we must have confidence or be 
False to ourselves, our brothers and our God. 

A sovereign who concedes to all, perforce. 

The right of free and equal birth, and more— 

The right of living free and equal lives; 

Free in the use of all their powers to will 
And to achieve, where’er that freedom keeps. 

As sacred, freedom for the rest as well; 

And equal, whatso’er their state or place, 

In opportunity for growth, for health, for joy. 





60 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Such is this creature formed by all 

Who cast their votes—which forms in turn, 

And then reforms and molds, by right disbursement 
Of that lawful tax, a nobler and a greater state. 

Such is the one to whom we tribute pay 

In laying down our tax. If aught miscarry 

From the purpose good, the fault, when all is said, 

Is yours and yours and mine, and in our hands 
The remedy—the Vote. 


The Furnace. 


Tom Jones has got a furnace that’s 
The meanest thing on earth. 

And ’taint because he got it cheap 
He paid three times its worth— 

Or that is what he tells me as 
I hear his tale of woe 

Each morning, how he’s worked for hours 
To make the blame thing go. 

He shakes it and he pokes it and 
He cleans the clinkers out. 

He shuts the drafts and opens them 
And throws the coal about. 

He burns the sooty chimney out 
And fills adjacent space 

With language rude, when that old stove 
Bursts flame out in his face. 

Oh, many are his troubles and 
He tells them all to me. 

I listen and I sympathize 
And sometimes grin with glee; 

For I’ve a stove of that same make 
I paid the self-same price. 

1 wouldn’t change my furnace for 
Another, howe’er nice. 



DIALECT VERSE 


61 


You see, I treat it as a friend, 

And jolly it along, 

Expecting it to treat me right 
If I don't treat it wrong 
I feed it well, and bank it down 
At night, or warmish days, 

And right there in the fire pot 
That little fire stays. 

Oh don’t tell me that furnaces 
Are different from men. 

You’ve got to treat your furnace right 
And if you do—why then 
Most any little furnace will 
Behave itself and work. 

But don’t expect perfection when 
You treat it like a Turk. 







































IV 


Votes for Women 






VOTES FOR WOMEN 


65 


Votes for Women. 


I 

Down, down, downed. 

With the skip to go underground. 

I climb to my place on the steps beside 
The white-faced men, when the ways divide, 

And down we go 

To the depths below 

On our long, long, deep, deep ride. 

The links are strong 

And the chain is long 

And the power will stand the strain. 

I return again 

And stand among men. 

No miner has lived in vain. 

What way did the piper so long ago 
Lead the children from that town? 

What way did the lady in our own land 
Bring them back again to the town? 

Oh, the piper who piped on the other side 
Had a toll to be gathered up. 

And she who has opened the hill gate wide 
Had a guest with her to sup 

And the heights and the depths of the mind of a man 
Will be sounded and measured again and again. 

So, as brave men fly and brave men delve 
And the women their ranks have joined, 

’Tis the children’s task 
From God to ask 

That there be no rights purloined. 

Let them lisp their prayer 
In the free glad air, 

While there speeds to the depths below 

A thrill like the li^ht 

After that dark night 

When a Savior’s soul was laid low. 



66 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Oh, what was the sex of our Savior’s soul 
As he suffered upon the cross? 

In our free land 

Does man command 

That a woman’s soul be a cross? 

We will say them yea, 

We will say them nay. 

But our souls shall make us free; 

For our cause is right 

Since that awful night 

When our Savior was nailed to the Tree. 

Up, up, up, to that citadel far away 
Where we enter the realm of the perfect Light 
That shines for both night and day. 

Where the souls that have passed and the souls alive 
Are so spotless pure they need no more strive 
For the light that shall last alway. 



VOTES FOR WOMEN 


Votes for Women. 

II 

My verse is not yet free. 'Tis bound. 

Has old earth spawned again 
And brought forth man like lice, 

Both male and female? 

And then ranged them face to face 
And horde on horde 
To fight till death? 

Not for supremacy they fight 
But for the Way— 

The Way that long ago was pointed out, 

And lost, and sought again; 

The way to make souls free 

To live for love, and by love rule the world. 

Come pagan! 

Come believer! 

Wrest it out from nature and from God’s revealed word. 
What is God’s word? 

The summit of all life, all knowledge; 

That which so transcends all else that man has sought 
That, uttered, it again transmuted is 
Into the whole entirety of life. 

“Thus shall it be.’’ The edict once gone forth 
Man’s will becomes like God, and powers 
Of heaven and hell are loosed, succumb to thought. 
And work that edict out. 

“Thus shall it be.’’ That half of all humanity 
Which we call low or high because 
It speaks not in our governments 
Will wrest its speech from very God 
If he gives not. 

So males have done. So we. 

Because a human being has two hands, 

Must one be cut off, lest they learn 
Two occupations, or to lighten one? 

A family, with two god-given tongues: 

Must one be cut out, and the Word be sacrificed again? 
The epitome of humanity’s achievement 
Be halved, and put to naught. 

And man once more fall from 

That high estate to which he has been called? 

God forbid! Let women vote. 



68 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Votes for Women. 

Ill 

A Definition. 

Question. The voter—male— 

What is it? Why 
“Male voters” listed? 

Please reply. 

Answer. Intelligence, a specified 

Amount. That cannot be denied. 

And this intelligence resides 
In human body. What besides 
Does constitute the voter male 
Within true civilization’s pale? 

Why clothes, for sure, of such a cut 
They’re classed as masculine. 

Ah, but 

A hat, a coat, a soldier’s cape! 

And to the polls! Let none escape. 

Sweet reason claims that womankind 
This definition bear in mind. 

Let none be rash. Let none be craven, 
Our ship of state shall reach its haven, 
For women of mankind are part,— 

Equal in strength, in mind and heart. 

With might that might their places seize 
(If so they justice might appease). 

With power that calmly keeps the way 
Of peace; that waits the spirit’s sway; 
For women’s votes our cohorts stand, 
“For God and home and native land.” 



V 


Earlier Verse 


























EARLIER VERSE 


71 


A Surprised Fairy. 

(In Ladies’ Home Journal 1895.) 

One day while Mabel took a nap 
And I had on my thinking cap, 

A fairy, all in golden sheen 

Came floating by me. When first seen 

I thought she came from Fairyland, 

Then saw the book in Mabers hand 
And knew that when she fell asleep 
She let this fairy from it creep. 

In gold and rosy hues arrayed 
Was this dear little fairy maid. 

With eyes of blue and face most fair, 

With sunbeams tangled in her hair, 

With winning smile and brow serene. 

Of all bright fairies she was queen. 

A cocoon on the window-sill, 

(Left there by careless brother Will) 

Caught Fairy’s eye. “Poor, ugly thing,’’ 

She said, “You have no gauzy wing. 

Nor anything to make you glad. 

I really think it is too Dad!” 

The ugly little chrysalis 

Was very much amused at this 

And though he tried to be polite 

He chuclded, choked—then laughed outright, 

His sides shook so they burst apart 

The coat he’d spun with wondrous art. 

And there appeared before her view 
A butterfly of varied hue. 

Whose rainbow-tinted wings were bright 
As any that had met her sight 
E’en in her own dear Fairyland, 

’Mong all the beauties of her band. 

“Oh,” said the sylph, “I didn’t know 
That things in real life happened so!” 

With that she vanished into air, 

And I—stopped dozing in my chair. 



72 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Wintergreen. 

(To my Grandmother.) 

For the sake of St. Valentine, and in his name, 

I send to you this wintergreen. 

With its bright, glossy leaves and its berries of flame, 
A wee bit of the grace of the woods whence it came, 
Of the beauty in winter that’s seen; 

Of the silvery birch bark and the green hemlock tree, 
Of the smooth rounded lichens we find, 

Of the gurgle and plash of the waters set free 

At the spring near the top of the hill may this be 

Just a token, to bring them to mind; 

Of the bridges across the brook of fallen trees, 

Of the moss that grows on the stone wall. 

The light snow to be brushed aside looking for these. 
Of the sound of the axe one can hear on the breeze 
And the crash of the trees as they fall; 

And the view down the valley from upon the hill, 

The mountains around and above 

The old turnpike road, the picturesque mill. 

And the river that’s fed by many a rill 
Flowing down from these mountains we love. 



EARLIER VERSE 


73 


Oh, Hunger, Hunger! 

(Written for Dr. Lucy E—’s Class.) 

“Oh, hunger, hunger, 

I will harness thee 
And make thee harrow 
All my spirit’s glebe.” 

After the husbandman has plowed his field 
Great clods of earth between deep furrows lie. 

With last year’s stubble showing here and there. 
Then must the harrow’s work be done and those 
Great clods of earth be crushed and ground, and so 
The field be well prepared to yield best fruits. 

After repentance ploughs my spirit’s glebe 
New thoughts and new emotions lie upturned. 
Perchance old habits showing here and there. 

Not ready, yet, the soil, to give best yield; 

But let my hunger after righteousness 
Break up and crush the clods till all is smooth: 

So break the clod of over-zealousness 
That I may never run ere I am sent. 

But listen patiently for God’s commands; 

And grind to dust the clod self-consciousness 
Till self is wholly lost in work for God; 

And may that hunger do its work so well 
(That deep desire to be what God doth will) 

That these and kindred faults may leave no trace 
And last year’s stubble all be cleared away. 

Then if the seed but be well “harrowed in,” 

God’s Word indeed be “hid within my heart” 

I may expect the fruits of peace and love. 



74 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


A Spring “Pome.” 

I jest can’t help it; every time • 

’At Spring comes round I take to rhyme. 

Oh, yes! I know the sort o’ jokes 
They make about us rhymin’ folks. 

Spring poets air not populer, 

But that ain’t what I do it fer. 

I’ve rhymed about the balmy breeze, 

An’ springin’ flowers, an’ buddin’ trees; 

About the little purlin’ rill 
An’ aspen leaves ’afs never still. 

I s’pose they’s reelly nothin’ new 
Fer me t’ fit my rhymin’ to. 

But seems like each time Spring comes round 
’At every blessed sight an’ sound 
Sets loose the greatest lot o’ rhymes 
A ringin’ through my head like chimes; 

An’ even when the words is lame 
The tune keeps jinglin’ jest the same. 

I jest can’t help it! I declare 
They’s suthin’ in this Springy air 
’At fills a man so full he must 
Let out his feelin’s once, er bust. 

I’m glad it’s Spring! Hurrah fer Spring! 

How I do wish’t I could sing 
Like that there little tiny bird 
’At doesn’t have t’ say a word. 

But in sweet notes am trills can jest 
Let out the joy ’^t fills his breast. 

Why, seems like every livin’ thing 
Ought ter be glad t’ have it Spring. 

[Published in Chicago “Elite”! 



EARLIER VERSE 


75 


Original Treatment of an Ancient Theme. 


Our Mary had a little lamb, 

It had no fleece at all; 

It didn’t even know enough 
To come at Mary’s call. 

And as for tagging her to school— 
To school she never went; 

And as for lingering about, 

It didn’t care a cent. 

’Tis true our Mary loved her lamb 
But this, alas, is true. 

That lamb would ne’er our Mary love 
Whatever she might do. 

It could not bleat, nor skip about; 
’Twould tumble down, ker-flop! 

For Mary was our kitchen maid, 

Her little lamb—a chop. 

[Published in Farm Implement News] 



76 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Hearts o* Gold. 

Jemmie’s just a lab’rin’ laddie, 

Workin’ steady at his trade, 

Lovin’ well his little lassie, 

(She that’s Jones’s kitchen maid) 

Straight an’ honest, brave an’ loyal, 

’Tis no secret I am told, 

Tho’ his jacket’s torn an’ shabby. 

Jemmy’s heart is made o’ gold. 

Tho’ his jacket’s torn an’ shabby, 

Jemmy’s heart is made o’ gold. 

They’re the folks we all are wantin’. 
Rich or poor, or young or old, 
Why should circumstances hide ’em 
When their hearts are purest gold? 
Fortune’s freaks need not divide us 
If our hearts are hearts o’ gold. 

Yon’s a man whose wealth I’m bearin’. 
Can’t be reckoned in a day. 

Some will say he’s proud an’ haughty, 

But to that I’ll tell them nay. 

For I saw that Croesus, mind you. 

Strong an’ manly, brave an’ bold. 

Risk his life to save another. 

Surely he’s a heart o’ gold! 

Don’t you let his great possessions 
Hide from you his heart o’ gold. 

They’re the folks, etc. 

What if some be rich or learnM! 

What if some be poor, my lad! 

Sure the poor are often happy 
An’ the rich sometimes are sad. 

But the friend you should be choosin’. 

Whose regard ’twere well to hold. 

Is the man, whate’er his station, 

With a heart that’s pure as gold,— 

He’s the man amongst them, laddie. 

Is the man whose heart is gold. 

They’re the folks, etc. 



EARLIER VERSE 


77 


Visions of the Night. 


Deep the darkness of the night. Eye sees not, nor hears the ear 
Sleep comes not. I am possessed by a nameless dread and fear 
Like a disembodied self, from all mortal bonds set free. 

Through sad haunts of sin and shame wand’ring on I seem to be. 
Glimpses here and voices there fall upon my spirit’s ken 
Till there seem engraven there all the ills and sins of men. 

Endless seems the human stream, measureless the sun of woe. 
Yearningly, for gleam of good, do I, as I onward go. 

Scan the faces, young and old, marked by life’s relentless hand. 
Written o’er with scorching truth, deeply seared with sin’s dark brand. 
In the babel seems compressed all of life that makes the heart 
Sick to think that of this vast human stream it is a part: 

Jangling tongues of scolding hags, brawling sounds of drunken rage. 
Cries of infants newly born, sighs of gaunt, decrepit age; 

Mingled with the brazen laugh, curses, sullen words of scorn. 

Bitter wails of homeless waifs, to a world of sorrow born. 

Hopelessly I strive to turn from the surging, awful throng. 

Strive to think of sights and sounds of the world where I belong, 
Say they’re visions of my brain weariness has conjured up. 

Wonder, "must the human race drink so deep of sorrow’s cup.” 
Upward, then, I lift my eyes—upward to the vaulted sky. 

Lifted are my thougnts from earth to eternal things on high. 

There in boundless space I see stars unnumbered, each a world. 
Guided by an unseen hand, not by reckless chance swift hurled. 

Yet tne One whose will is law o’er the universe has said 
That, unnoted by his love, not one little bird falls dead. 

Might that sways a myriad worlds! Love that heeds the sparrow’s fall! 
Through the prison-bars of fate mercy doth extend to all. 

Wisdom infinite hath God, his almighty power to wield; 

Infinite his loving heart, by his son, our Lord, revealed. 



78 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Song of the School-ma’am. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

To your Tommy, and Harry, and Dick. 

“Moral suasion’^ them till 

You could wish with a will 

For the reign of the old-fashioned stick. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

And endeavor to vocally prod 

To the virtuous way 

The bad boys that each day 

Need a dose of the old-fashioned rod. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

But the boy of today is no fool, 

And suspension’s a jest, 

A vacation, a rest 

From the arduous duties of school. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

As they struggle with needle and thread. 

How to hem and to fell 

And to backstitch you tell 

Though to seamstress’ trade you’re not bred. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

With a class of but twenty or less 

One with fingers and mind 

Unto sewing inclined 

Might secure a good lesson I guess. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

With a roomful of sixty or more 
Such a lesson that might 
Be a source of delight 
Just becomes a detestable bore. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

We are patching old garments with new. 

It is really too pad. 

But to match this new fad 

All our schools should be changed thro’ and through. 



EARLIER VERSE 


79 


Talk, talk, talk! 

But oh, where on the face of the globe— 

Tell me where I can find 

Me a new-fangled mind 

And the patience ascribed unto Job. 

Talk, talk, talk! 

And then read the new rules of the Board; 
If you venture to kick 
You’ll be dropped, oh so quick- 
Ly, and that you can hardly afford. 

[Printed in Chicago Times.] 



80 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Old Cynthy. 

Poor old Cynthy! 

In the great asylum yard, 

Needing no attending guard, 

Up and down the grassy sward 
Walks old Cynthy. 

Poor old Cynthy! 

As beneath the elms she walks 
Wrings her withered hands and talks 
To herself. The wind but mocks 
Old, mad Cynthy. 

Poor old Cynthy! 

On her vacant, wrinkled face. 

Grief and care have left their trace— 
Lines that time cannot erase 
Mark old Cynthy. 

Poor old Cynthy 

Tramps on, turning now and then. 
Path just trod to tread again. 

While wierd thoughts beyond our ken 
Thinks poor Cynthy. 

Poor old Cynthy 
Lifts her bent head now because 
Groups of merry school girls pause 
On their way, as near them draws 
Old mad Cynthy. 

Says old Cynthy, 

“Little darlings, pretty dears. 

Come my sweet ones, have no fears. 

I was once like you, but years 
Changed poor Cynthy.’^’ 

Poor old Cynthy! 

“Yes I once was young and fair. 

Eyes so blue, and golden hair— 

But I’m buried now —up there.’’ 
Prates old Cynthy. 



EARLIER VERSE 


81 


Poor old Cynthy 
Points up yonder on the height 
Where the slanting rays of light 
Fall on gravestones tall and white. 

Poor old Cynthy! 

Yes, old Cynthy, 

As the years pass slowly by 
There your broken heart shall lie, 
With your child, till you, too, die. 

Poor old Cynthy! 

[Published in Banner of Gold.] 



82 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Prophecy. 

Owatonnas of Warren Avenue 
1893 

Time A. D. 1920 and the place 
A noble gothic hall of ample space 
Erected by an architect whose name 
In this, our World’s Fair City, has much fame, 

A member, he, of that illustrious band 
The Owatonnas, known throughout the land. 
Who here at last have found a permanent home 
A place to which with one accord they come 
This eve, their old-time friends to meet and greet 
And hear each one his history repeat. 

Each member comes prepared his tale to tell 
And brings some trophy of his skill as well. 

The first one to appear upon the scene 
You’d think to be at least a judge, I ween. 

So grave and magisterial his air; 

But in his arms a burden doth he bear 
Of ponderous size and heavy looking too, 

Which stood upon its feet reveals to view 
A dummy in a perfect suit of clothes. 

To this, he says, his affluence he owes. 

Next comes a couple, music rolls in hand 
To sing their story to the assembled band, 

For many years now has their life’s duet 
Been sung together with no discord yet. 

We know them. He is dark and she is fair; 

As in the past, they make a pretty pair. 

A gentleman now follows in their wake 
Whose form and features we cannot mistake. 

We think to show the club what he can do 
He will bring in a Sunday-school or two; 

But no, he brings a pile both high and wide 
Of kodak pictures, which, laid side by side, 

It has been proved by actual measurement 
Would reach from Occident to orient. 



EARLIER VERSE 


83 


Five female forms now come within our sight, 
Their glance is neither to the left nor right, 

But some of them are dark and some are fair 
And all are of a most commanding air. 

They bring no trophies in their hands but say 
As with one voice: “For our life’s work we pray 
You look in legislative halls of state 
And noted pulpits—see men rich and great 
And know we taught, full many a year ago 
These men and women statesmen—how to sew.” 

With smiling face and form somewhat rotund 
We’re greeted, as we turn to one whose fund 
Of histrionic skill in days gone by 
Among his colleagues was esteemed as high. 

He brings as best achievement of his life 
The girl he won to be his charming wife. 

A little man, he chose a tiny mate 
But how he got her never will relate. 

A busy man, as he would have you know, 

Drops in a moment, but he soon must go. 
Important cases always on his hands. 

He can do naught but answer their demands; 

But leaves a mammoth allopathic pill 
Sure, if but swallowed once, to cure or kill. 

From mission fields the next arrivals come. 

From lands full many a weary mile from home 
The faithful missionary with her brings. 

Along with idols, paper prayers, and things, 

A sample savage whose demeanor mild 
Is quite correct, although his folks are wild. 

This party came, not with Darius Green, 

But with a man who’s made a like machine. 

He brought them safely o’er, a flying trip — 
“Indeed, much better than an ocean ship.” 

To listen to him as he tells you so 
Is equal to his Punch and Judy show. 

A loved and honored minister and spouse 
Now entering, our interest arouse. 

Look closer, their faces we soon recognize 
And to the next newcomer—turn our eyes. 




84 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


His smiling countenance and ready wit 
(Compelled by slower tongue to wait a bit), 

His store of anecdotes most apropos 
We welcome as we did long years ago. 

He’s followed by a man whose six feet four 

Are matched by his three hundred pounds or more. 

Although he never, now, dons Fauntleroy curls. 

He’s just as proud as ever of the girls. 

A Senator with a Columbus beard 

And slightly bald, has in the door appeared. 

He hopes ere long to see the happy day 
When Prohibition laws shall have full sway. 

His sister now a stately matron stands 

Near by, and greets old friends. To her commands 

Her willing husband lends a listening ear. 

And now a multitude of friends draw near. 

Those girls who once so very certain were 
That they would single blessedness prefer 
Bring in, as escorts, husbands neat and nice, 

Of various sizes, ages, forms and price. 

Some suited ill, and some of them quite well 
(But which is which be sure I shall not tell). 

And in their midst is seen one to whose face 
Enthusiasm lends a pleasing grace. 

Whoever wants her confidence to win 
Can do so—if he’ll wear a C. E. pin. 

Indeed that little badge is still most dear 
To many a heart of those assembled here. 

And last a goodly company of men. 

Step into-sight, smile pleasantly, and then 
Refer us to the “Men’s Home Magazine,” 

In which, if we will look, there may be seen 
Recorded much of interest in their lives. 

As “Unknown Husbands of their Well Known Wives.” 

My tale is ended. Nineteen twenty sinks 
Into oblivion. If one’s here who thinks 
Himself or herself not included, clear 
His lack of comprehension doth appear. 



EARLIER VERSE 


85 


Junior C. E. Song 
for Cleveland Convention 

Loyal Juniors, we are striving, good Endeavorers to be. 

To the battle we are marching with our banners floating free. 

Clad in armor that the Lord provides alike for you and me 
For Christ we’ll win the world. 

Let our helmet be salvation and our faltering feet be shod 
With the gospel preparation of the wondrous peace of God, 

As we follow in the footsteps that the saints before have trod. 

For Christ we’ll win the world. 

And our breastplate shall be righteousness. ’Tis promised by the Lord 
He will send His holy spirit to become our living sword; 

Then to prompt and valient action let us move with one accord. 

For Christ we’ll win the world. 

Let us bind ourselves with Truth as with a girdle while we take. 

In our hand the Shield of Faith that Satan’s darts can never break. 

Let us loyal be to Christ, and to the Church for His dear sake. 

For Christ we’ll win the world. 

Tho’ but children we can fight for right and overcome the wrong, 

We can wear the Christian armor, through Christ’s strength we may be strong, 
Singing praises to our God to whom all power and might belong. 

For Christ we’ll win the world. 



86 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Illinois Rally Song—Christian Endeavor. 

(For Montreal Convention.) 

’Tis the hostess of the nations, Illinois, we rally from. 

To join the mighty army of Endeavorers we come, 

With greetings from the thousands of the faithful ones at home. 

For Christ we’ll win the world. 

Illinois has sons and daughters who are brave and true and strong. 

Who will help to wage the battle of the right against the wrong. 

Who have faith that will not waver though the fight be fierce and long, 
For Christ we’ll win the world. 

As good soldiers of the cross of Christ we will not cease to pray 
While with longing hearts we’re watching for the dawn of that great day 
When all nations of the earth shall bow beneath the gospel’s sway 
For Christ we’ll win the world. 

We have taken for our battle-cry our Saviour’s last command. 

We will go and teach all nations till he’s known throughout every land. 
Thus, believing, we shall conquer, for almighty is his hand 
For Christ we’ll win the world. 

Oh, then, rouse ye up, Endeavorers, the battle ne’er give o’er! 

Let our army be recruited with ten hundred thousand more. 

And this watchword be re-echoed till it rings from snore to shore 
For Christ we’ll win the world. 

Refrain Glory, glory, hallelujah! 

Glory, glory, hallelujah! 

Glory, glory, halleligah! 

For Christ we’ll win the world. 


The Work of the Christian Citizen. 

In the past our fathers battled ’gainst oppression’s dreadful sway. 

Yea, they fought the foe and conquered, for a brighter, freer day. 

Not to such a mortal conflict we Endeavorers are called. 

But to free a mighty nation oft by subtler chains enthralled. 

Love of pelf and love of power have usurped the patriot’s zeal. 

Men are standing in high places, careless of the nation’s weal. 

Ours the task to rouse our brethren from their slothful ease and sleep. 
In the casting of their ballots warning them God’s truth to keep. 

In the glorious day that’s coming may we sing this joyful song 
"Hallelujah! for our city is both beautiful and strong; 

“For behold, our God appointeth for its bulwark and its wall 
His salvation, and though storms may rage our city cannot fall. 

"Open wide the city gates, and let the righteous nation in. 

Who have kept the Truth of God and driven out the hosts of sin.’’ 

Isaiah XXVI, 1-2. 



EARLIER VERSE 


87 


New Year’s Eve. 


The year is gone. It’s closing day 
And nour the clock fast ticks away. 
It’s flying moments we would fain 
Call back, and use them o’er again. 

We crave the time for one more prayer, 
The time our brother’s grief to share, 

A little time to right one wrong. 

To sing one hopeful Christian song. 

A moment just to say one word 
That longing ears have never heard, 
To read one psalm, to urge one soul 
To come to Christ and be made whole. 

Could we now use the hours misspent 
That God for loving service lent, 

To us, in this fast closing year 
How changed its records might appear. 

But steadily the clock ticks on. 

And marks another year begun, 

Our Father, grant that this may be 
A year of joy in serving Thee. 

Oh, may we use each precious hour 
Nor waste a moment. By thy power 
Sustain and keep us. Lord, we pray, 

Be our salvation day by day. 



88 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


A Hymn. 


Oh God, we turn to Thee, 

Our stronghoM, our defense; 

Nor fear that either foe or storm 
Can drive us out from thence. 

Thy power omnipotent 

Thy stronghold’s mighty wall. 

Thy never-dying love to us 
It’s door, admitting all. 

Within that stronghold, Lord, 

Our souls may rest secure. 

Whatever be the ills our minds 
Or bodies may endure. 

To be despised or poor 
A glorious cross should be 

Remembering that Thy dear Son 
Was tempted like as we. 

To have endured and won 
The victory over pain 

Through Christ is infinitely more 
Than any earthly gain. 

[Printed in C. E. News.] 



EARLIER VERSE 


89 


‘‘Nearer to Thee.*' 


From toil for daily bread 
With many an aching head 
And tired brain; 

Packed in a crowded ear, 

Wearied with jolt and jar, 

Homeward we came. 

Old man, and little lad, 

Young girls, bright-faced, and sad, 
A motley crew; 

Motley beliefs as well, 

Agnostic, infidel, 

Christian and Jew. 

Each life its burden bears. 

Each one its weight of cares 
Seemed to possess. 

What all those cares might be. 
What each soul’s history, 

I made my guess. 

Then fell upon my ear 
Flute-like, and low and clear, 

A whistled strain, 

I turned about to see 
Whence came the melody— 

That old refrain. 

Toil stained his garments were, 
Only a laborer 

Uncouth was he; 

Whose heart prayer seemed to be 
“Nearer my God to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee.” 

Unconscious of the rest. 

As though within his breast 

No care nor thought, 
Save that though rough and poor, 
Nearer to God each hour 

He might be brought. 



90 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


And as I looked from him 
E’en though my eyes were dim 
Still, I could see; 

In faces turned that way 
That there were more who pray 
“Nearer to Thee.” 

[Printed in C. E. News.] 



EARLIER VERSE 


91 


An Anniversary Hymn. 


(Decennial Program, Warren Av. Congl. Church.) 

As those who in his courts abide, 

With thankful hearts to God we raise 
A song of gladness, love and praise. 

Lo, surely, He hath been our guide. 

Our strength and stay. 

For loyal members, true and tried, 

Who found within our church a place 
God’s temple to uphold and grace. 

And stand like pillars side by side 
From day to day, 

For chosen leaders, strong and wise, 

Who builded well the temple wall; 

For Providence, o’erruling all. 

That here a church of God should rise 
And stand today, 

For hallowed hours and joyful days 
And added hosts who have believed; 

For countless blessings oft received, 

Our Heavenly Father’s love and praise 
We sing alway. 



92 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Children's Day for Our Sunday-school 
Society. 


Bright among our festal days 
Is the one the children claim, 

Glad, their youthful voices raise 
Carols to our Savior’s name. 

Day when every childish heart 
Christian-nurtured from its birth. 
Feels itself a vital part 
Of the Church of God on earth. 

Day when Sunday-school and church 
Bid our missionaries go. 

For neglected children search. 
Teaching them God’s word to know. 

Well may joyful hymns arise 
From the children far and near. 

This glad day but typefies 

Work that’s done throughout the year. 

Self-denying we must be 
Lest the blessed work we stay. 

May our gifts be full and free 
For the claims of Children’s Day. 






VI 

Three Little Plays 


itSdL'. 












































THREE LITTLE PLAYS 


95 


A True Story Play for Children. 

Note. A three foot piece of walUpaper border, landscape pattern 
showing a few trees and distant hills, was pinned, at the height of 
3feet, to our library bookshelves which served as the back of the stage. 
From this were draped, over a lounge and several small pieces of 
furniture, three pairs of old dark-green crinkly curtains, which 
brought the verdure well to the front of our stage. A folded sewing 
table, propped up with a dictionary and covered with a gray blanket, 
served as the flat rock. And on the little hills made by the furniture 
under the green curtains, were scattered a few toy sheep. This proved 
quite a satisfactory setting for the first act. 

A hastily constructed easel, a few draperies, old portraits in frames 
standing about, and several adjustable window screens over which 
cloth was pinned for canvas, was quite sufficient to suggest the artist's 
studio in the second and third acts. 

Time. A summer afternoon in the 13th Century. 

Place. A green meadow surrounded by woods. Sheep grazing 
about. In the foreground a large, flat rock. The boy, Giotto, 
is very busy, drawing with chalk upon the surface of this rock, 
looking at the sheep and then using the chalk, again and again. 
Enter the great artist, Cimabue. He gazes at the beauties of the 
landscape, shading his eyes with his hand, and at length notices 
the boy, working away, almost at his feet. He goes nearer, softly, 
and looks over the boy's shoulder. Surprise, wonder, admiration, 
are seen in his face and gestures. 

Cimabue. {gently) Ah, my lad, do you love to draw? 

Giotto, {surprised, rising and touching his cap) Yes, sir. 
Cimabue. Who taught you, boy? 

Giotto. No one, sir. I keep my father’s sheep, here in the 
meadow. I see the sheep. I find these bits of chalk. The smooth, 
fiat rock is here, and so the picture grows. 

Cimabue. What is your name, my boy? 

Giotto. I am called Giotto, sir. 

Cimabue. Giotto, would you like to go with me? I, too, love 
to make pictures. I will show you how to use the crayons, and 
how to lay the paint on canvas. Some day you may become a 
great artist, and paint pictures for all the world to see—if you 
will come with me. 

Giotto. Oh, sir, if I could learn I’d be so glad, so glad to go. 
But—who would care for father’s sheep if I were to go with you? 
Here comes my father, sir. {Enter Bondoni) This is my father 
{taking Bondoni’s hand). Bondoni is his name. (Bondoni bows 
low, as a shepherd to a courtier.) 



96 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


CiMABUE. You are the father of this boy, good man? This 
Giotto, most assuredly, has great talent, perhaps great genius. 
His drawing here, fills me with wonder. Such a little lad, and 
working all alone! (Studies the drawing carefully) Bondoni, man, 
will you spare this lad (lays hand on Giotto’s shoulder) to me, 
to go with me to Florence and learn to be an artist—a great artist 
if I am not mistaken? I am Cimabue. (Bondoni hows again 
with reverence due so great an artist). 

Bondoni. (Looking affectionately at the hoy, who clings to him) 
To spare him will be sad for me, great Cimabue, and I shall miss 
him sorely with the sheep, for he is faithful at his tasks, good sir. 
Yet this gift of his, which has seemed wonderful to me, is too 
great to be wasted. If you can give him freedom in this art after 
he serves his due apprenticeship, O, great Cimabue,—I give him 
to you. 

Cimabue. Good words, Bondoni. More and more I’m taken 
with the lad. Come, let us talk this over. (They walk away, 
Giotto following) He shall go to Florence with me, and there, 
in my studio— (Giotto turns hack, lingeringly, as they disappear, 
then runs to the rock, picks up the chalk, and falls to drawing, until 
at last, he seems satisfied and throws down the chalk). 

Giotto. There, there, my sheep, you’ll do! (Pa<s the picture 
lovingly) and maybe tomorrow you will ruh'right off the rock 
(laughs heartily at the thought, looks at the sheep grazing, and then 
about at the scenery). Dear sheep! Dear trees! I love it all. (Puts 
right hand over eyes, tight and hard, and stands for a moment, think¬ 
ing). Oh! I see it still! I see it still! (Removes hand from eyes). 
In my mind’s eye I’ll keep these woods (waves hand toward trees) 
my sheep, and all, and with this hand I’ll make the people see it 
all—if my master will but show me how. I’ll serve him faithfully. 
I’ll work and work, and learn and learn—and paint such pictures! 
Oh!— (Runs off, hut stops to look about once more). Good-bye dear 
fields, dear home! 

Curtain. 

Time. When Giotto was grown to he a man and a great artist. 

Place. Florence — Giotto’s studio. (Giotto discovered at work 
at his easel. Enter envoy from the pope, wearing rich robes and 
carrying a portfolio.) 

Envoy. Is this the artist, Giotto? 

Giotto. (Rising courteously) I am Giotto, sir. 

Envoy. I have heard of Giotto’s fame far away from here, and 
I desire to see such of your pictures as I may. I come to Florence 
as Envoy from his eminence, the pope. 



THREE LITTLE PLAYS 


97 


Giotto, (bowing) The envoy from the pope is welcome to my 
studio, and since my work is of interest, prajr look about at your 
pleasure. 

Envoy. In Rome they tell this story of the pupil of the great 
Cimabue: that once you painted upon your master’s canvas, a 
fly so lifelike that the master strove, though vainly, to brush it off. 

Giotto. (Laughing with the envoy) Yes, that was true, though 
’twas an idle prank. 

Envoy. An idle prank, perhaps, yet showing marvelous skill! 
But to my errand. His Holiness, the pope, desires that certain 
paintings be made in the Church of St. Peter in Rome. I have 
had converse with many great artists of Siena and am now come 
to Florence. In this portfolio are many drawings made by those 
great artists, that I may display before the pope, that for himself 
he may judge who is worthy to be entrusted with that great work. 
Will you, Giotto, give me some drawing that I may present to my 
master for this purpose? 

Giotto. Certainly, sir. I shall be most happy to send to His 
Holiness an exhibition of my skill. (Picks up pencil and drawing 
paper and with one sweep of his hand draws perfect circle. He pre¬ 
sents this to the envoy with a smile). Here is the drawing. 

Envoy. (Looking at the drawing curiously and with displeasure) 
Am I to have nothing more than this? You jest with me. 

Giotto. This is no jest. You will see, yourself, the full moon 
in the sky is not more fully round than Giotto’s O, made with one 
simple sweep of his right hand. Send on that drawing with the 
rest, and see if it will not be recognized. I’ll stake my reputation 
on it. “Nothing more than that!’’ That is enough and to spare. 
(The Envoy shakes his head, sadly, hut places the drawing in his 
portfolio and withdraws). 

Giotto. (Alone) Yes, enough and to spare, and if he tells the 
manner of the doing of it, and His Holiness sees how fair and 
perfect—yea, perfection itself—is that little circle, ’twill tell the 
tale of all my good accomplishments. (Goes to work at his easel). 

Curtain. 

Time. Later. 

Place. Same (Giotto discovered at easel. Enter Envoy). 

Envoy. Good morrow, Giotto. 

Giotto. Good morrow, sir. You return again to Giotto’s studio. 
What do you desire? Another O? Ha! Ha! 

Envoy. Indeed that was no jest, good Giotto. I found that 
out when I presented your drawing to His Holiness. 

Giotto. ’Twas as I said, then? 



98 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Envoy. Yes, His Holiness and those courtiers about him who 
are well versed in matters of art were loud in their praises of 
Giotto. That simple line, they said, proclaimed you greatest of 
them all. I bring you here {takes a parchment from his portfolio) 
the commission from His Holiness, to execute the paintings in the 
Church of St. Peter. 

Giotto. I beg you tell His Holiness that I shall execute his 
orders with all due speed and diligence. (Bows low as he takes the 
parchment.) 

Envoy. And I am honored to be the messenger between so 
noble a patron and so great an artist. (Bows himself out.) 

Giotto. (Laying down parchment, puts his hand over his eyes 
for a moment.) Yes, yes, I still can see them. The old home, 
the sheep, the woods—my father, kind Bondoni—and even the 
flat rock with its chalk drawing, and the little lad, so earnest in 
his work. That boy was striving to picture life with truth. So 
may this man (strikes chest), to whatever heights he may attain, 
still strive and strive to represent the Truth. 

Curtain. 



THREE LITTLE PLAYS 


99 


The Artist and the Soldier. 

{A school yard in Florence at the beginning of the 15th Century. 
Two fifteen-year-old boys discovered.) 

Carlo. See my new scabbard, Guido. ’Tis a beauty. 

Guido. So ’tis. But why not hang it up to look at o’er thy 
desk, not wear it at thy side? That fine engraving makes me want 
my little bo.x of tools again. 

Carlo. The engraving! Pooh! ’Tis a shapely scabbard, 
Guido, to hold a sword, and I shall some day have the blade to 
fill it and wear it bravely. The soldier’s life for me! Hooray! 

Guido. But not for me. No, never shall my life be spent for 
war. You know not what the life is like, friend Carlo. ’Tis a 
dog’s life, and the finest minds among our youth will oft succumb 
to that rash spirit which degrades, and, having seen a battle never, 
yet will yowl and yap and vulgarize a place, and act like dogs, 
like nasty, snarling curs, and worse. 

Carlo. Why should you so berate them? 

Guido. The pretty tinsel of their uniforms bedecking such a 
lust for blood and rapine—bah! ’tis inartistic. If fight we must 
let us have the Spartan spirit, or like our own old Romans wield 
the axe and then desist and give the place to arts: build and remake, 
paint and remodel. Of course—we conquer always. We Floren¬ 
tines are invincible. Why so silent. Carlo? Does the scabbard 
look so shining bright by war or by the arts of peace? 

Carlo. You overcome me Guido. Your words come like—like 
—oh, you can talk, and paint, and say your lessons like a book, 
and I—well, I must act, somehow. I would not be a braggart, 
Guido, truly. Does not our glorious city need defenders? 

Guido. I spar at you with words not fists; and you no doubt 
will some day thrust me through with that brave sword. I die! 
Can’st see me thus—say over there by yonder tree, lying slain, 
and you, your dripping sword— 

Carlo. Stop, Guido! I’ll have none of that. My fist is my 
good weapon. Stop! 

Guido. Well, there’s the bell. Our master calls to work. 
You’ll have to wrestle with the poets ere you fight. 

Curtain. 

{Street in Fiesole—twenty years later. The two men meet.) 

Carlo. Guido, by my sword! Art thou Guido? 

Guido. Truly, I am Guido. But why doth such a sturdy 
soldier, swarth and bearded, helmeted and girded, built for wars 
and doubtless making them, address an humble brother (monk) 



100 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


like myself? I beg for alms sometimes, of certain kinds. I pray 
thee give me information. Tell me who thou art. 

Carlo. I will not give, good brother, what you ask. Such 
needless alms bestowed when memory should aid would sure be 
waste. My brain must not be wasted. ’Tis scant enough at best. 
See this scabbard, Guido, and recall your school days. 

Guido. Thou’rt Carlo, little warrior of old, who would be even 
then a soldier. 

Carlo. I know your fame and work. Fira Giovanni, angel- 
maker. In peace and quietness from this high retreat you gather 
up great beauty, and then make it known by gentle craft and 
patient skill, while I go blustering, as soldiers must sometimes for 
lack of wit. 

Guido. So you know my work! My saints and angels, versus 
your brave sword; and between them lies the life that men and 
women live and love, with children coming on and homes and 
schools and crafts to be acquired, or luxuries. Art married. Carlo? 

Carlo. No, my brother. You and I alike, in those old school¬ 
days sought the stainless life, and in our seeking to avoid the 
snares and pitfalls have left out much joy. I dream of happiness 
like that at times, but only dream. You, doubtless, are resigned, 
and leave a vain world willingly, for other aims. But, Guido! 
In your pictures, why such haloes? Doth your priory loan out its 
gold and plate to make its saints stiff-necked? Soldiers, now, 
would eat off them—not put them in the pictures. 

Guido. Ha, Ha! Ha, Ha! Your humor improves with your 
age and experience. But that is the thought—the very thought. 
We shall have a better feast than ever before. The light substan¬ 
tial grows, and makes a plate of gold on which is spread the coun¬ 
tenance, the cranium, the mold and fashion of the house of mind 
of each and every saint. Your criticism gives my work more 
breadth. My eyes do feast on color, and my mind doth feast on 
mind, and thus a feast within a feast I spread for all beholders. 

Carlo. I do feel the pangs of hunger. Let me view such a 
feast again. 

Guido. Come with me then to the monastery. 

Carlo. With greatest pleasure. 

Curtain 

{Monastery at Fiesole, before large 'painting.) 

Guido. You stand with mouth agape. Well, feast and feast. 
You will have food for thought for many a day. 

Carlo. Well, if my gaping mouth and ass’s jaw (for such stuff) 
could masticate enough to grow me ears to match, no doubt then 



I'HIiEE LITTLE PLAYS 


101 


I should hear the heavenly melodies. Slow as I am I should follow 
in the train. Such robes! Methinks they cost a fortune. But 
even I could well afford the paint for you to make a robe like this 
for me. 

Guido. I dare not wear such spotless white as that, nor such a 
heavenly blue. I only paint them. This would do for you—dark 
and rich and mellow. It would rest you after soldiering to wear a 
robe like this one. 

Carlo. What’s the price? And might I have a crown? 

Guido. No crown, no papal hat on such a thinkbox as is yours, 
friend Carlo. Be poor, as these saints were, then rich in love for 
all mankind, and you will learn from them. 

Carlo. Pray leave me, Guido, while I study this great master¬ 
piece. Together we should talk unceasingly, but I would stand and 
think awhile alone before it. I will join you later. 

Guido. Till then, adieu. 



102 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Good Stepmother. 

{Home of Giovanni Sanzio in Urhino about 14-92.) 

Raphael. Oh, mother Bernardina, take me on your lap and 
let me put my arms around your neck. I am so lonely. 

Bernardina. Well, nestling, come to Bernardina. There! 

Raphael. Yes, you are like my mother, very like. Your eyes 
look at me just like hers. Who are you. Mother Bernardina? 

Bernardina. I am your father’s wife, sweet boy, and would 
be to you that mother that his first wife was, who bore you, so that 
she may have you safe again some day. 

Raphael. Your white neck is so soft. It makes my hands look 
black. Let me slip down now. I’ll run a race with Fido. See his 
tail wag. Fido! Fido! 

Bernardina. But do not leave your books too long before the 
dinner hour. A mother is not made for fondling merely. There 
are set tasks to do—then play. One more sweet kiss. Now let 
the doggie go and learn your lessons. 

Raphael. That I will, sweet mother. I am glad that jmu will 
be my mother. Will you hear me say my tables? 

Bernardina. Give me the book, then. Now which table is it? 

Raphael. The apothecaries’, on the second page. “Three 
scruples make one drachm.’’ 

Bernardina. I haven’t any when I look at such a boy {kisses 
him slyly on the back of his neck). And yet I take my meed. 

Raphael. Eight drachms will make one ounce. 

Bernardina. What public house is this that lets out five small 
letters, like this o-u-n-c-e, to hold—eight horns of wine say. 

Raphael. Leave those drachms alone. They are not drinks, 
and even if they were, have I not gobbled up eight years and more, 
to make me grow so tall! Oh, ho, dear Bernardina, you’re a better 
jester than my mother was, and yet I loved her more. Why? why? 

Bernardina. There, Raphael, I will not jest if you will always 
get the better of me—but say your tables to your master, not to 
me. You’ll jest with me in better part than ever when your good 
father comes. Study now, while I attend to household duties. 

Curtain 

{Eight years later, after the death of Raphael's father.) 

Raphael. This way my father wrote it in his chronicle, dear 
mother: 

“Two youths, alike in years, alike in love, 

Leonard! and Perugino, from above 
Their light immortal brought. 

And in their paintings wrought.” 



THREE LITTLE PLAYS 


103 


Now, to think that I shall paint with the great Perugino, all my 
father’s lessons— 

Bernardina. Raphael, may all that thy good father taught thee 
of the brush and all that I have longed for thee, be thine. Thou 
hast a great facility. Bring to its aid a purpose firm, and love, dear 
son; without love like the angels’ love, your brush will never do 
its best. Why would you be an artist, Raphael? Why not try 
merchandising, rather, or with letters make your fame? 

Raphael. Why do the birds sing? the stars shine? You look at 
me with love? Ha, ha! God made us so, dear mother. Let us be 
glad and laugh. I embrace you once more, and I shall write to 
you such letters—such letters as my father would have writ had 
he again renewed his friendship with Perugia’s famed painter. 

Bernardina. I shall reread them thrice no doubt, my Raphael* 
and then refer to them each day until a new one comes. 

Raphael. Mother, these five years now Giovanni Sanzio has 
been dead, but in these lines he wrote for his two painter friends, 
and in my love for art, he lives again. Do I look like him, dear 
mother? 

Bernardina. Brave son, be just yourself. You reverence your 
father’s memory. ’Tis well, but you paint pictures and must do 
it grandly. Yours is the glowing brush, no matter what your 
father’s former years contribute, and with you lies the power to 
wield it well. Go Raphael, and write me. 

Raphael. Once more, then, adieu. 

Curtain. 

■ {Street in Perugia, about 1516.) 

Raphael. Yes, it was there, across the street there in that alley— 
by that low drinking place, the little gamins all about her. Her 
face shone like a star to me, dirt none the less; and in the tender 
lines of that sweet form that rags and slovenliness could not con¬ 
ceal, I saw a pattern. What was there in that face? I must con¬ 
fess ’twas smeared, and almost sodden, but somewhere there 
lurked the look that was my mother’s. Why, in that lowdown 
place I could forget myself and nestle up to her and let my love 
bespeak a soft caress. Bah! What am I thinking oH Those 
brutes now swaggering about no doubt are her most intimates. 
I will not spoil my picture, but will turn away and take this thrown 
out cask-head from some liquorous bin, and sketch my theme 
upon it. Round must the picture be, the beauteous curve en¬ 
throning here the memories of my mother, whose dear eyes looked 



104 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


lovingly upon me while I yet wore swaddling clothes in infancy; 
and then my second mother whose sweet lips with admonitions 
framed, yet keep their smile of love for me. 

And yet, the picture, as it grows with my swift pencil and imagi¬ 
nation’s aid to give it color, depicts as surely, too, the wanton 
one’s sweet grace. 

’Twas so she bent her head, and so the slender neck repeats the 
curving circle’s line. Her arms—they surely mother arms were 
meant to be—must have this gift to hold. The Christ-child it 
must be, and with the little standard bearer by, small Giovanni, 
sharing mother-love. 

My shawl from India! The duchess’ scarf. I’ll hie me to my 
studio and pose my usual model, then close my eyes until the 
lashes give out rays (child-fashion) and using them for haloes 
—ha! ha! ha!—I’ll think of all this freshly glowing group. 

Where was that knee? So rests the little child upon it. 

Back to my studio and to work, and blessings on the wanton 
(if so sadly placed she be as that) for giving me the breathing 
inspiration. 



VII 

Fragments 





FRAGMENTS 


107 


Fragments. 

I am so sad, so sad 
I think 

I never can be glad 
Again; 

And then 

When comes the morrow 
I bid goodbye to sorrow. 

Worn paths, with grass beside them 
And no weeds! 

Such beauty comes 
From habits of good deeds. 


His Likeness. 

Were they molding His face in the womb of the world 
When it shone so transfigured with light? 

Oh, Mary, your daughters are yearning in prayer 
That His cup be for healing, not blight. 


Battlefield of Fairmount. 

Our soldiers brave went over the top, 
The crest of the hill was won; 

Beyond lies a long, long level stretch 
And time to rest in the sun. 


Ante-War Styles 

The world is all a fricassee, 
Correggio’s outdone. 

A thousand thousand ladies’ legs 
Are twinkling in the sun. 


Some Poetry. 

Some poetry is writ for eye-gate open, 

And some, so ravishing, is for to make 
All sleepers, and the blind, to ope their eyes. 



108 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Scotch Mary. 

Why did she hide them away in her heart— 
Faith and love? 

Why did not she let the spirit descend 
Upon her like a dove? 

Why did she hide them away in her heart— 
Love and faith? 

Smothering there, did they make her a scold, 
And make him a wraith? 

Shadows. 

See the glove my lady’s wearin’? 

Once ’twas thrown away, 

Scorned, discarded, cast aside,— 
Limply, there it lay. 

Now it clings with velvet touch 
Ne’er from her hand to part. 

Can you see it? No? Is’t strange? 
That dingin’ glove’s m 5 ^ heart. 

Some Folks. 

Some folks they dress for dinner, 

An’ some dress up for tea, 

But never did I think my love 
Would dress like that for me. 

My Mansion. 

I have built another little room 
Right in my heart; 

It is tiny, yet, within, it holds 
The counterpart 
Of a new friend. 

And somehow that new room may grow 
The more I see and hear and know 
That friend of mine. 

My stately mansion, fair to mind, 

Is made of rooms like this. I find 
It livable and bright. 



FRAGMENTS 


109 


The Crucifix. 

Jesus, we have followed Thee 
In those Thy semblance bear. 
Christ, upon high Calvary 
We leave Thee hanging there. 
And raise adoring prayer. 

Save us, O Lord, lest we 
Break another chalice rare 
Of personality. 


Juxtaposition. 

Were ’t best to be 
The man who built a lofty mart 
And topped it with a fane; 
Posed as rebellious novice nun. 
Embroidering a jane; 

Or just a scribbler, scribbling WORDS 
With all one’s might and main? 


Grewsome, but Devoted. 

When I die you will not find 
“Calais” writ on my heart. 

I have a neater way than that 
Lest love and I should part. 

For I have slit my heart 
And spread it wide. 

Then sewed it up again, 

Dear love inside. 





110 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Suspicion. 

Suspicion, with his shambling gait, 
Goes skulking up and down. 

His blear eyes peering stealthily 
At every one in town. 

No good deed can be done but he 
Will find a motive mean; 

And nothing is so bad but that 
He thinks worse will be seen. 

Then shall we thrust the villain out 
And raise a hue and cry? 

No, just let nature take its course; 
He’ll shrivel up and die. 

When men confess that others may 
Be just as good as they. 

And look for good and not for ill 
Suspicion fades away. 


War Colors. 

Purple, orange, yellow. 

Red and blue and green. 

Clashing bits of color 
Everywhere are seen. 

‘ ‘ Heliotrope”! Such half tints 
Now are off the map. 

Colors, colors, clear and strong 
Are spread on nature’s lap. 

Clashing bits of color. 

Thrown together, free! 

Maybe that our wartime joy 
Is in their purity. 

Clear and pure and radiant. 

Live and sparkling bright. 
Gathered so, in purity. 

They make a great white light. 

White and black and malay tints, 
Chinese, Indian, 

Crude individuality, 

The blend American. 



VIII 

The Five Stones 




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# *■ 


I 


f 


I 


I 



I 





THE FIVE STONES 


113 


The Five Stones. 


As I crossed the sands of the desert 
I fell for lack of bread, 

And my hands clutched hard 

At a fruity sward 

But grasped cool stones instead. 

And one was a bit of coral 
That looked like a human brain; 

And the yellow sand 

Of a foreign strand 

In its crevices long had lain. 

And one was a ghstening geode. 

An opening shaped like a harp, 

In the rough outside. 

By its yawning wide 

Showed the crystals, clear and sharp. 

Close, close by this stone in its beauty 
Lay its tiny counterpart. 

And the crystals bright 
In the garish light 
Of the desert shone apart. 

The fourth was a slender panel 
Of a slate-like grayish stone. 

And a slender print 
Like a nail, by dint 
Of fancy, a crescent shone. 

The fifth was of purest whiteness, 

A stone that was cut by hand. 

Its lines so true 
Showed a beauty new, 

Wliere a graven name might stand. 

My eyes were seared with beauty. 

My hands were red like fiame; 

But the stones were there 
And my soul was where 
It knew neither joy nor shame. 



114 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


For the thought of the mind almighty 
And of love so crystal pure, 

And inherent right 
Of transmitted Hght 
To make our faith more sure; 

And the grayness of mortal error 
With the suffering of the cross; 

Then the pure white stone 

Wherein might be shown 

The name that was purged of dross, 

Oh these made a story golden 
With points like the points of a star. 
And I felt no need 
Of food or meed. 

For I trod where the angels are. 


Christmas Time. 


I met a soul as I fared forth. 

As I fared forth alone; 

And it shone as clear to the eye of my soul 
As the stars in the sky that shone. 

The moonlight changed the glistening snow 
On path and roof and bough. 

To a wedding garment with jewels bedecked, 

And it married the past to now. 

The soul then asked my soul, and said 
“Oh,mortal, can it be 

That there is no place on the earth once again 
For myself and companions three?” 

We come from far, we waited long. 

We mortal temples seek, 

" " . » . ,s of the Lord?” 





THE LESSON OF THE LOAVES 


115 


My tongue was dumb, my eyes welled tears 
That I must look like fate. 

Oh, what could I say to a soul like this. 

And the souls that with it wait?” 

I thought of all the angel hosts, 

The great crowds worshipping. 

And my heart was glad that until today 
We have kept the Christ our King. 

So once again those angel hosts 
Are held beyond our ken 

And the mortals who live and are guarding life 
Shall be blessing the race of men. 

For Christ our King is born again 

In hearts that love him true 

And his glory and peace and glad good will 

Will shine all the ages through. 


The Lesson of the Loaves. 


Would you so call him back. 

The friend who has passed on? 

And with your thoughts supply the lack 
Of his volition; make a track 
For him to walk upon? 

Would you so subsidize 
And furnish forth with aid 
The phantom form, before your eyes 
To walk, and mock, enacting lies 
When this by you ’tis made? 

Oh, leave him free as air 
And hold your vision true. 

And never think that it is fair 
To let your thought, your will declare 
The world he shall pass through. 




116 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Think how our Saviour sought 
To satisfy by sight 

That craving for the wonders wrought 
By powers for healing, powers of thought 
Obedient to the right. 

So swift time passed along, 

So keen they hearkened there. 

That hunger fell upon the throng 
Their forces spent. He felt the wrong 
Of fasting, though with prayer. 

Five little loaves He took, 

And brake, and brake, and brake 
And then, with wonder in their look, 

Like children, they with Him partook— 
Such bread as they might make. 

Oh, use the faith that sees 
Beyond our human sight. 

And learns from wonders such as these 
The simple verities that please 
The Master of the Light. 


Thou Sun of Righteousness. 

Thou Sun of Righteousness, thy glorious beams 
Pill all the universe thy love redeems. 

Where’er we are, if we but turn our eyes. 

One straight and radiant path before us lies. 

Though vain illusions may our steps beguile. 

Across our course thy rays still fall the while; 

If through despair, we turn direct away 
They shine on us, however far we stray. 

Oh, may we keep the straightest path alway. 

Which brighter grows into thy perfect day! 

What thou wouldst have us do may we fulfill 
Till merged and lost in thy great light—God’s will. 

Lost in that glorious light, our souls shall be 
Clothed with a radiance new, unfettered, free: 

Free to go forth again, to seek and save 
Wanderers, and blind, and those who pardon crave. 



NICELY SAVED 


117 


Once for All. 

Once for all the blessed Master 
Lived and loved and died for me. 

Let the world move slow or faster 
From my sins he sets me free. 

Refrain: Oh, wonderful love! 

Love so full, so free! 

Love of the wonderful, peerless Christ 
For a weary soul like me. 

Once for all His cross I’ve taken 
For my shield, my sign, my share; 

For he lived, and loved, and lingered 
After death, life to declare. 

Refrain: Oh, wonderful love! 

Love so full, so free! 

Love of the wonderful, peerless Christ 
That sets his followers free. 

Once for all. His power. His glory, 

So illumined all the way 

That the Christians’ endless story 
Keeps that radiance day by day. 

Refrain: Oh, wonderful love! 

Love so full, so free! 

Love of the wonderful peerless Christ 
That shines so gloriously! 


“Nicely Saved.” 

Mellow light from chandeliers. 
Cushioned seats in many tiers. 
Carpet soft, and tinted wall, 

Lofty organ, rising tall. 

Salaried organist and choir. 
Worshippers in silk attire. 

Waving fans of many hues! 
Giltedged hymnbooks, rented pews. 



118 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Gathered here, the Lord’s elite 
In His sanctuary meet; 

But tonight their tell-tale eyes 
Indicate wellbred surprise. 

In their pastor’s place doth stand 
Captain of an Army Band, 

Coat of blue and scarlet vest 
Letters white across his bfeast. 

Anthem sung, he has the floor, 

Half heard whispers “What a bore,’’ 
Stifled yawns, and looks resigned 
Show to him his hearers’ mind. 

But he cares not, for he knows 
Though his speech no polish shows. 
That his plain unvarnished tale 
Tells of Life, and cannot fail. 

Tells how soldiers of the Lord 
Strive to spread His blessed Word, 
Live, ’mid sin and shame and crime. 
Lives of sacrifice sublime. 

’Mong his hearers there are men 
Who were lost, but found again. 
Briefly now, he bids them tell 
If their Lord has used them well. 

Sin-scarred men are talking now, 
Glad to tell these people how. 
Sightless, Christ has bade them see. 
Bound, His love has set them free. 

Son of Erin, quaint and old, 

Lately gathered to the fold. 

Great his need from hour to hour. 
Great his Saviour’s keeping power. 

Kept from sinning day by day. 

This was all that he could say, 
“Jesus Christ has brought the light, 
And I’m nicely saved tonight!’’ 



GOD 


119 


Simple words, all hearts they thrilled, 
Long-dry eyes with tears were filled. 
Every soul that blessing craved, 
“Jesus, keep me nicely saved!” 


God. 

Does he sit in the heavens above us. 

Or dwells he on earth here below? 

Shall we search for him ’mongst those who love us? 
Or find him we love with the foe? 

From ages there centers about him. 

With legend and story, the truth 
That causes the vicious to fiout him, 

The wayward to show him no ruth. 

Oh, northwind, so icily blowing. 

Oh, southwind, whose zephyrs fan hell. 

Oh, eastwind, and westwind, betray him 
And tell us where mind doth best dwell. 

Would wisdom, enthroned, lock forever 
The doors of the palace of God? 

We will free God again, and then never 
Confine him to sky or to sod. 

For out through the billowing ocean 
And back through the earth and the sky 
Runs the quiver that portrays emotion, 

God’s answer to our question, “Why?” 

The earthquake, oh God, gives Thee glory 
And man toils anew, telling how 
We must give Thee back glory for glory. 
Communion. “Oh, God, it is Thou.” 

It is Thou with the love of a mother, 

A father, a husband, a child. 

Of one famished soul for another. 

Of the pure for Thy love undefiled. 

Wilt Thou come with the breath of the morning, 
With the shadows of eventide cool? 

With the day and the night may Thy Spirit 
O’er us keep its sway and its rule! 



120 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Except a Man be Born Again. 

Not see Thy Kingdom! Lord forbid, 
While in my neighbor’s heart is hid 
Thy Kingdom like a mustard seed! 
Oh, grant me, Lord, that promised birth 
Of soul, to see my neighbors worth 
And in his heart Thy Kingdom read. 

I know that something in each man 
(My task to find it if I can) 

Means fresh beholding of God’s face. 
Some hidden semblance to my Lord, 
Whose man-shown image is His Word, 
Shall be to me a means of grace. 

And, seeing, may we both begin. 
Neighbor and I, to enter in 
To that blest fellowship that makes 
Thy Kingdom in our midst. May we 
In each, and in all others, see 
The life divine that each partakes. 


And the Earth was Without Form and Void. 

Oh, space that quivered with great want! 

Oh will that filled that space with form! 

And from the seething furnace heat 
Of great creation wrought the norm. 

We follow on to know, with God, 

The awful sequence of earth’s birth. 

And learn that mortals ’neath the sod 
In countless numbers prove their worth; 

Each tabernacle dwelling place 
For replica of innate force. 

When, wrecked, they must be cast aside 
And raised again in palm and gorse. 

Behold the glad irnmortals rise 
To seek new mansions in the skies. 



THE MYSTIC VINE 


121 


A Modern Pharisee. 

Oh God! I thank Thee that I am—just that 1 am. 
I’ve lived, and loved, and fought ’gainst sin, 

And sinned in thought 
And fought again, 

And looked on sin until my thoughts 
Caught vileness up'again 

And wrote it, somehow, deep into my brain— 

And yet (praise God again!) 

I’ve kept my heart’s love. 

My deep purpose, pure. 

Not I, no, that’s just where the Christ comes in. 

His word. His spoken word— 

Christ’s word of love ! 

Oh, what’s the simplest way to say it all? 

It’s just His word. His Word, HIS WORD. 

That’s the beauty of it! Christ’s word of love. 

From whosesoever lips the message comes. 

That’s the restraining power. 

That’s just what saves and keeps. 

And works God’s will. 

And lifts us up to heights of glory. 

And sends us out to tell the story 
After the hour of prayer. 


The Mystic Vine. 

There is that vine, Christ called 'T am,” 
Beside a towering tree; 

While, close beside. He dwells, the Lamb, 
The Lamb of Calvary. 

“I am” He said, and “You shall be 
In Paradise with me.” 

So grows and thrives the mystic vine 
Of Personality. 

“I am,” “You are,” so spoke He then. 

[“She is” might be a leaf, 

“They are” another—while one speaks 
One listens, with belief.] 



122 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The tree of knowledge towers tall, 

Beside, the vine grows green. 

The tree grows old, stands in decay. 

While fresh the vines are seen. 

Oh, beauteous Vine! “I am,” “You are”— 
With Christ, a branch, a leaf! 

“You shall be.” Thus perfected fruit 
Christ promised to the thief. 

So close, so close, the stem, the branch 
The tendril and the leaf— 

So close did the Christ on Calvary 
Draw the repentant thief. 


Love’s Sacrificial Flame. 

With blundering footsteps, once, unwittingly, 

I trod on ground you held as sacred 
And you were angry. 

Swift the blackness fell about me. 

Yet, within my soul, a flame shot up, 

I knew that though a thousand years might pass 
Some day you, too, would understand. 

Not quite the thousand years were gone— 

(A day is as a thousand years ) 

Ere shone again the bright, clear light 
And all was well between us. 

Bu*/ now, not blunderings, but the mists 
Of differing wills, opinions and desires 
Have dimmed our day. 

Must it so darken, darken all the way— 

A weary, weary way, a long, long day? 

Oh, for the flame that makes it joy to wait 
Though waiting be the life-long, age-long task! 

I turn again to you—and to the stars. 

A thousand thousand years, mayhap, shall pass, 
(A thousand years are even as a day!) 

But you and I sometime, somewhere, shall stand. 
And, each in each, perceive and know, and understand 
Integrity of soul. For that I wait. 

Oh, joy! The flame spires up. 



WHEN LOVE INTERFERES 


123 


When Love Interferes. 

Star dust and moonbeams 
Gowned in pink sunrise 
What is this evanescent thing 
I see before my eyes? 

Star eyes and snow hair 
(Like a lawyer’s wig), 

All the morning sunshine makes 
Her filmy garments big. 

(My thought-made opera glass 1 take 
To help my dazzled eyes, 

And try to squeeze the glory down 
To more convenient size.) 

Star eyes and curly locks. 

Cheeks of palest rose; 

Opera cloak of starry blue 
Reveals gilt-slippered toes. 

Oh, dearest, queen of mine. 

To so reduce your size 

That it shall meet this need of mine. 

Your charms I’ll minimize. 

So now you small and smaller grow, 
You stand on my left arm. 

Each tiny wrinkle on your face 
Shall save me from alarm. 

I know that you are you, my dear. 

At home, or far afield. 

And as I glance at my left arm. 
Thought claims that truth revealed. 

And so I write and write and write 
And give my pen no name. 

And you shall hold the balance, dear, 
’Twixt good and evil fame. 

For oh, the world is very wide 
And fondest friends must part. 

The shield I bear at my left side 
Is you, my dear, my heart. 



124 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Guardians of the Way. 


My life seems like the cold gray stone 
Beside a path, near gardens blooming; 

And yours, so cold, impassive, lone. 

Across the path, like form assuming. 

Twin monuments with naught of beauty. 

Held by the strength of inert duty. 

Gray with a grayness naught can brighten. 
Heavy, with sadness naught can lighten. 

The path between sometimes seems wide 
As the world and all the heavens beside: 
Sometimes it narrows until a score 
Of leaves would measure the distance and more. 

Two cold gray stones by the side of the way! 
What have they of beauty to give? 

Something, to me, though so cold and gray, 
Something that bids me look and live. 

There’s joy in being set like rock 
The way to guard for aye and aye. 

In knowing love, and knowing faith— 

No need of question nor reply. 


That a Man Lay Down His Life. 


I went to my brother's funeral 
And when they laid him away, 

God gave me his body to take to my home, 
I carried it all the way. 

For when I lifted my hand to my brow 
His hand wiped the sweat away; 

When I laid my body down on my bed 
It was his body there that lay. 



MY MOTHER 


125 


In the night his voice, in my ears, in my mouth, 
His voice did with me stay. 

And his heart, his heart, kept beat with my heart 
From twilight till break of day.. 

When I rose in the morn, bowed down with grief, 
God’s sun drove black night away; 

’Twas as though my brother’s own soul in me 
Lived on in eternal day. 


My Mother. 


I see my mother everywhere. 

She died; yet seems now here, now there; 
As pictured in our inglenook, 

As glancing out in some friend’s look. 

As breathed in with the morning breeze, 

As glad, when there is aught to please. 

As learning with me from life’s page. 

As vital, in this teeming age. 

Yet while these thoughts are she and I, 
With other friends she may be nigh. 

Oh, tell me not her life has ceased! 

It has been from its bounds released. 

Her passing has again set free 
Her boundless personality. 

When after such diffused life. 

In cosmos finding rest from strife. 

The thoughts that make my mother choose 
Once more a mortal frame to use, 

Once more to seek an earthly home. 

And as a little child to come, 

Where shall she find a place and how 
Shall others love her, as we, now? 

Shall she again seek woman’s sphere 
And be herself from birth to bier? 

Or shall her love completeness find 
To walk as man among mankind. 

That character rebuilt on earth 
She wove, surpassing ruby’s worth. 



126 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Afterwards. 

And when again she came— 
For we passed on her name— 
To us she seemed the same; 
And to herself still more 
Hauntingly, 

The same as before, 

Will she grow tired 
Of life too soon? 

Ah, no! Life is 
Too great a boon. 

When given as life, 

And given in death, 

There’s recompense 
In every breath. 

’Tis joy to live. 

To love, to give. 


The Artist’s Vision; or, 

The Advent of the Stainless Knight. 

“Work! Give me work!’’ he cried. 

Before his eyes 

Great formless masses, cloud on cloud, arise; 

Gigantic, snowy peaks, they vaguely loom. 

Each banking high and leaving yet more room. 

While underneath a dark and cumulous mass 
Uprises, surges, seeks in vain to pass. 

Then from the lightning-riven clouds there shone 
A calmer radiance, and there stood alone 
One lofty pillar, formed like to a man 
With arms thrown out, titanic limbs aspan. 

Soon, side by side, their shoulders blade to blade. 

Stood this and one more form, like to a maid. 

Again the darkness pressed up ’neath their feet, 

A whelming seething blackness, incomplete. 

He bent, and with great hands took up the night 
A black and formless mass,—and lo, the light 



SOUL-ACQUAINTANCE 


127 


That from their mingled glances graced the sphere 
His hands now fashioned, showed their need more clear. 
And while he molded their new world below 
She, from the fleecy whiteness, pure as snow. 

Took her vast handfuls of the cloudy mist. 

As she the child thus formed, a rainbow kissed 
The group, and colors blossomed forth anew, 

And day and night and glory all were true. 


Soul - acquaintance. 

Was it a man? I thought. 

So with his goods inwrought. 

So pledged to ways. 

So shrouded all his days 
With gloom. 

So crowding his heart’s room, 

So mummified. 

Holding all love denied. 

Without a past. 

Oh, by the love of Christ 
I’ll break the way, thought I, 

I’ll hew and whack and pry. 

And e’en myself deny. 

To know what priced 
One soul, as some acclaim, 

So cheap. For wealth, or fame, 
Or family, or name, 

Hedged in by such a way— 

Tell me—what worth are they? 
Ruthless, to mine own eyes 
(Unheeded, I surmise 
By any else), 

I tore and threw away 

Mask after mask, each day, 

Custom, and lesser law. 

Till I stood back with awe, 

Before me stood at last. 

Shining with radiant past. 
Confident, careless, free. 
Knowingly, utterly, 

Christ’s—there it stood. 



128 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Then a new work began 
In mine own heart, 

How dared I (little soul) 

Read such a sacred scroll, 

Take such a part. 

Bare such a plan? 

Closing the episode 
Shall it be whip or goad 
Urging me on? 

Forgive me, I would cry 
If there were need; 

But where no heed 
Is paid, where I am naught 
Yet gain the object sought 
And greet one soul on high. 

Onward, as arm in arm. 

Held ever free from harm, 

I may sweet converse feel 
With one more grand ideal. 

One earth-wrought, 

Man-sought, 

Whole, 

Heaven-born soul. 

The Two Stones. 

A needle stone and an anvil stone 

The weary traveller found 

When straight he sought the narrow way 

And quit his wandering round. 

He saw the beauty of these stones 
At night, when all was still. 

He named the needle stone “I am,” 

The anvil stone “I will.” 

This traveller lost his time-worn stones 
Through friends who used him ill; 

But memory helps him with their names: 
“I am” and then “I will.” 

Now, should the traveller find his stones 
Returned to him, straightway 
He thanks and praise to God will give 
Whom winds and waves obey. 



IX 

Miscellaneous 


\ 



f ^ 


U • 








♦ y • 


I 


I, I 


I 






MISCELLANEOUS 


131 


Why I Bother the Editors. 

Too oft some fond child of my brain, 
Some couplet, joke or sonnet, 

I’ve gaily shown to others, fain 
To have them pass upon it. 

Alas! And what did I behold? 

That child, my pet and pride. 

In cold wet blanket neatly rolled— 

So cold and wet it died. 

So now I throw them in the stream. 

To struggle, swim or sink. 

And watch them with impartial eye 
While I stand on the brink. 

I send them here, I send them there, 

I strew them far and wide; 

E’en when they all come back to me 
I view myself ^ith pride. 

Of stamps it co&lj me not a few 
And yet I’m sure ’tis plain. 

If one in twenty makes a go, 

I have not lived in vain. 

No reason, yet, in all these lines? 
Well^ that’s the author’s plight. 

There is no reason other than 
Because / love to write. 


No Trouble with the Map. 

When we have trouble with the globe 
To demonstrate a fact. 

We fall back on the maps again, 

And find the proof compact. 

We take the hemispheres in hand. 
Circumference anywhere. 

And lap them just a little bit 
And fasten them with care. 



132 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


And if the lap is on the land 
Or on the ocean free, 

Can find the Arc (of Ararat?) 

True as the Rule of Three. 

Why should the twinnish hemispheres 
Be separated quite, 

When with a chord we skewer them 
And thus avoid a fight? 

The day that used to get used up 
In going round the sphere 
Can rest itself in our old Are 
And say goodbye to fear. 


To be a Poet. 

From out the caldron, piping hot, 

I pull a phrase, a word, a mark. 

And with my pen a picture paint 
That rivals Breton’s song “The Lark.’’ 
I know ’tis mine and no one’s else 
Because my fork of hope, so deft. 

Lands just the very word I want, 

I never look to see what’s left. 

So merrily I ply my trade 

Of poet—one that’s born, not made. 

I’d so much rather write than paint, 

For all the artists, I have heard. 

Have awful times to learn to draw 
And I have just to draw each word 
From out the caldron, piping hot. 

And write them down. It means a lot 
To be a poet. 


The Fashions, Since Time Was. 

Now listen to this tale I tell. 

It happened in a deep sea dell, 

A mermaid wept and wailed. 

Her tears they mingled with the wave 
And though she struggled to be brave 
Her strenuous efforts failed. 



MISCELLANEOUS 


133 


Now possibly you do not know 
What is the custom down below 
Among the merman folk. 

High rank is flaunted without fail 
By oysters fastened to the tail,— 

I tell you it"s no joke. 

This mermaid’s rank, so high and fine. 

Was shown by oysters numbering nine 
Attached unto her tail. 

The pain was great. Alas, that she 
Was of the aristocracy! 

She did her fate bewail. 

Her mermaid mother floated near. 

And sought the maiden’s heart to cheer. 
And wiped her weeping eye. 

She tried to calm her daughter’s fears. 
Subdued her sobs, but found her tears 
Impossible to dry. 

The mother said: Be not forlorn. 

The pain, though great, can still be borne. 
Remonstrance is in vain. 

What though the oysters pinch your tail! 
Be brave, and ne’er before them quail 
For “Pride Must Suffer Pain”! 

Tight boots, stiff collars, hobble skirts, 
Whatever fashion ’tis that hurts. 

To protest would be vain; 

So fortify yourselves instead 

With what the mermaid’s mother said,— 

That pride must suffer pain. 



134 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


The Wanderer’s Heritage. 

Zz-wz z-z z 

What though my ankle was lame from birth, 

I’ve found the treadle that moves the earth; 

My foot has a place to work, to work, 

So now no longer my task I’ll shirk. 

Zz-wzz-zz 

With pack on shoulder and staff in hand 
I’ve tramped to the borders of no-man’s-land. 

Have found my castle and climbed its tower. 

And keep my vigil this midnight hour. 

Zz-wzz-z-z 

Such work, such work, for these eyes of mine. 

Such work for my hands to trace line on line, 

From the broad free acres for which they fight 
To the square of paper by candlelight. 

Zz-wzz-zz 

Oh, now is my castle built high and strong, 

Though barren the acres lain fallow so long; 

And tonight they are mine for I know, I know 
The very world’s secrets that make things grow. 

Zz-wzz-wzz 

My brain still rings with the sounds from afar, 

The whir of the engines, the roar and the jar. 

I give myself freedom in my high tower 

And feel the great throbbing and pulsing of power. 

Zz-wz z-z z 

My heart pumps bravely for fingers numb 
And I listen as though to the beat of a drum, 

Thrice blest that in stillness and far away 
From war and its glories I find my day. 

Zz-wzz-zz 

My day comes on with a clear, calm light 
And folded away are the visions of night. 

My tower a barn, and hay for my bed. 

In the morning I sleep and then beg for my bread. 
Zz-wzz-zz 





















MISCELLANEOUS 


135 


I've taken the land and I’ve made it my own, 

By the right of the free who have servitude known; 
And I'll keep it, and give it, and earn it again, 

And sell it—and all by the power of the pen. 

Zz-wzz-zz! 


The Child’s Pronouns. 

I sometimes think that there are two 
Of me, and call them “I” and “you.” 
And when I’m needing playmates three 
I call them “I” and “you” and “me.” 

And when a fly comes buzzing by 
And “he” and “him” and “her” I try 
And neither of those words will fit 
I end by calling that fly “it.” 

Of all the pronouns it’s the best,— 

You say it and it tells the rest; 

It may be something very small, 

Or something very large and tall. 

And always in the games they say 
You’re “it” when you have made a play. 
And in a crowd once, where I went. 
They called out “It’s the President.” 
Oh, “It” is just the grandest word, 

I think, that I have ever heard. 


Who Hath not Seen all Things in Garish Light. 

I 

WTio hath not seen all things in garish light, 

A freakish destiny the only god. 

Which makes and breaks and gives (because of might) 

Such souls as ours, where heroes once have trod 
And worshipped (free because they nobly strove) 

A god of love, who sought them to inspire 
Their high fraternity, with glade or grove 
To serve as temple; to them nature, higher 
Than king or emperor, gave rules and meed 
For honest effort. When we take their creed 






136 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


And free ourselves from that false light of greed 
Which seems to color every human soul, 

Then life once more seems a fresh wHtten scroll 
With high endeavor teeming, God in control. 

II 

WTio hath not seen all things in garish light, 

A fate bizarre, uncertain, dealing out 
To each of us small portions of delight 
With many a bitter pill and lusty bout? 

What boots it that a man may seize his crown 
And jauntily may place it on his head? 

If he have ears or none, it presses down 
And likely makes a dog collar instead. 

By which, to mistress tied, chain long or short 
He dangles after her for many a day. 

Till unenthralled and ripe again for sport 
From his unlovely service breaks away. 

Oh, better let the crown be shyly placed 
By mistress, her sweet self, than assumed in haste. 

III 

Who hath not seen all things in garish light, 

Held in the grasp of a destructive fear 
So marshalling its forces that the right 
Seems ever in abeyance to the near? 

The forces close at hand, 'gainst which we strive 
Hold and enthrall, yet ever, far away 
A beckoning gleam of love just keeps alive 
The hope that still impels us on our way. 

Beyond, in quiet distances and free. 

The planets ever circle round the sun, 

-Vnd even so to them we know that we 
May throw the dartling gleam, so like the one 
Bright star, that consecrate, a poet's soul 
Led on and helped to reach the poet's goal. 



MISCELLANEOUS 


137 


The Grasshopper on the Ninth Fairway. 

Oh the joy of golfing days! I've started from the tee 

And if my jumping springs hold out I’ll “put” in twenty-three. 

If you take a rising start, you'll land as sure as fate. 

It’s better than to argue or to sit and vegetate. 

Once you land, and touch the earth, be off before you wink. 
Jumping is the only way a grasshopper can think. 

If there’s petty rivalry concerning ways and means. 

Never mind a bump or two, keep jumping toward the greens. 
Not another hoppergrass has jumped as far as I. 

Of this fact I am convinced although I don’t know why. 
Bother! Now I’ve lost my count. Golly! There’s a ball. 
Lucky here’s a tuft of grass. I’m glad I am so small. 

Oh, the joys of golfing days! The putting green’s in sight 
And if I land down in a hole—oh, woe is me—good-night! 


Imagination. 

Imagination plays a leading part 
In staging any play. Consummate art 
Can so withhold, enhance, direct or sway 
Attention, and with careful interplay 
Of lines a scene project, and almost make 
Reality unreal and truth a fake. 

Yet without visions where would progress be? 
Imagination always has been free 
And always will be. By its power we climb 
And lift our limitations, till all time 
That has been serves and molds at our command 
The time that will be. So throughout our land 
The impulse toward the higher, nobler life 
Wages its warfare, a transcendant strife. 




138 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


Mystery. 

The puppy, irping at the newhatched chick, 

The gray old dog, incensed at foes unseen. 

The wee child pulling at the curtains thick. 

And showing its sweet face their folds between. 

The youth in search of fresh adventuring. 

The adult blinded by the stress of life 

Yet groping out to where once more the wing 

Of fancy bears him on again toward strife: 

All these, and every creature of the world 
Attack diurnally, ’twixt rise and fall 
Of each new sun, a mystery, unfurled 
With beckoning invitation. ’Tis the call 
Of vision leading to a knowledge new. 

Each mystery solved, a door we have passed through, 

A Doctor’s Prayer. 

The lust of the eyes for disease and death! 

Christ save us from this we pray. 

With love for beauty and health, and faith, 

Keep our vision true alway. 

As the Christ did die, so may we die 
Whatever may be the cause. 

Help us to lay upon Him all fear 
And search for and find His laws. 

When the crippled and sore, the maimed and halt 
Appearing before our gaze 
Seem to hold on our vision infectious grasp 

May we think of Christ’s wholeness always. 

Millais’ Knight at the Ford. 

Up, out of the water, he bears them away 
From the care of the nuns, from toiling to play. 
From quiet to noise. 

From fagots to toys 

From one world to another, from shadow to day. 

Left behind are the ruins of cloister and hall. 

And those sisters, by industry frugal withal, 

Who cared for the strays. 

Sought to better their ways. 

To inure them to poverty, hold them in thrall. 




MISCELLANEOUS 


139 


Comes the knight, so caparisoned, armored and spurred 
(To win by the sword supreme might for the word). 

Sees the light in their eyes. 

Knows that love therein lies; 

All his motives of chivalry by them are stirred. 

On the road from simplicity, toiling and pain, 

Back to gayety, worldliness, color, again! 

With the tinkling of bells 
There is gladness that wells 
From the hearts of the children, to live among men. 

Rejoice with the knight at his guerdon of youth,— 

That with sword and with trappings and spurs, there is ruth 
For the children who dwell 
In the sorrowful dell. 

In the heart of this knight. He is kind, of a truth. 

All modest, and loving, and wondering, too. 

Rides the maid with the knight, and he tells her ’tis true 
That with God up above 
Shining down, there is love 

To be fought for and guerdoned, and brave deeds to do. 

And the boy who is taught what adversity means. 

Then is brought out of gloom into livelier scenes. 

What knows he of care 
When at last, riding there. 

Between him and gloom the broad stream intervenes? 

So the knight and the maiden, the boy, and the steed, 

The nuns in the distance traversing the mead. 

The upland and meadow. 

The sunshine and shadow. 

Are with beauty embellishing here kindly deed. 



SCOTCH THISTLES 


140 


Entertaining Suspicion. 


To win a child with raven locks, 

Among a flock of fair, 

My enterprising grandsire may 
Have dyed—^his yellow hair. 

Now granny was a ruddy dame 
With freckles, and blue eyed. 

Three sons with fiery auburn locks 
She ranged upon her side. 

They’d view this black-haired parent then 
With deep and amorous eyes, 

Although ’twas something new and strange 
They all were game, and wise. 

And, granther having dyed, they all 
Then sought another state, 

And made therein another home. 

Events there to await. 

No wonder, when my mother came, 

With eyes of violet hue, 

And raven locks, he felt no shame 
Who bottle habits knew. 

For dye is cheap and daughters dear 
With raven locks bedeckt. 

And eyes that like a mirror clear 
All thoughts of good reflect. 

Then while his daughter grew apace 
And like a lily bloomed. 

And suitors entered in a race 
To see who should be groomed. 

Her mother pined and passed away 
And she, a child bereft 
Of mother love, was ever sad 

Though brothers three were left. 




MISCELLANEOUS 


141 


’Twas then her father died, indeed! 
Now, grandsire’s dead black hair 

As pictured in the album, with 
His quaint subscription there. 

Has raised suspicion in my breast 
That one so erudite 

And crafty as that old man was 
Might even—yes, he might 

Have thrown away his bad black dye 
And worn his sandy thatch — 

And somehow made his getaway, 

For death more than a match! 

By this time he’d be very old 
And tottering no doubt; 

So if you meet a sandy, old 
And crafty man, look out! 

It may be granther come to life 
(Or maybe dyed again) 

For rarely thus, but sometimes, 

Are the curious ways of men. 


Truth. 

I 

(To H. L. H.) 

Truth holds a mirror, wields a pen. 

When ends her service says “amen," 

Then Right makes might 

And leads the fight 

And wields Truth as his sword. 

Flaming and bright. 

II 

Truth spreads her strong and valient wings 
Along which lie bright feathers. 

Scarce a hairs breadth space between them; 
Yet in those infinitely small interstices. 

The atmosphere its all pervading might impens 
And lo, the flight! 

Imagination serving wings for Truth. 



142 


SCOTCH THISTLES 


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MISCELLANEOUS 


143 


Patriotism. 

Our Town, Our State, Our Country’s weal. 
Our Country, State and Town 
May naught our loyal love conceal; 

May we, each fired with patriot’s zeal. 
That love with service crown. 

Our gratitude for home and friends. 

Our widening spheres of thought. 

Lead out and up while ardor blends 
Our Town, Our State, Our Country’s ends. 
And good for all is sought. 

Our enemies, within, without. 

May their destruction come! 

When foes assail each fresh redoubt. 

May we arise and thrust them out; 

Be ne’er supine and dumb. 

Our glorious armies and our flag, 

God make their triumphs show 
That right and justice will not lag; 

In deepest vale on highest crag 
Our country’s colors glow! 

In echoes raised by marching feet. 

Brave song and roll of drum. 

May we our victories repeat. 

Fresh strength put on, all foes to meet; 
AMERICANS become! 


—Anne More. 






























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